


Someday When Spring Is Here

by larazhivago



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark Have a Good Relationship, DON'T CLICK IF YOU DON'T WANT ROMANCE, F/M, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Jon doesn't have Stockholm Syndrome, Missandei with agency, Necromancy, No Smut, No Three-Eyed Raven, Political!Jon, Romance, Romantic Fluff, SCRYING, Sacrificial!Jon, Slight Snow White and Sleeping Beauty inspiration, True Love, dark!Tyrion, dragonseed, jonsa, mega sapfest, no Night King but Viserion still died, no ironborn, spitting northman, tyrion is not a moral compass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21800458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larazhivago/pseuds/larazhivago
Summary: Jon Snow went to Dragonstone already knowing the truth of his birth - that he is the secret son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar. The Great War is won, and Jon must now face the ramifications of his deal with the conquering Dragon Queen, as well as his burgeoning feelings for his "half-sister", Sansa Stark, who is betrothed to another man...
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 98
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fanetjuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanetjuh/gifts).

> For the Jonsa Holiday Fic Exchange 2019! This is loosely based on S8, with more PG-13 themes. Sansa wasn't given to the Boltons, but most other details after S5 are intact. Because I didn't want to make this fic bigger than I could handle, I omitted a few characters and reduced others. I wrote this under a terrible time constraint as a result of having hardly any free time this autumn and winter... (I'm so exhausted! *cries and passes out*) ... so... some of the chapters are extremely short. That'll happen. Slow writer + time constraint = little content. I'm not a book reader, but I did a bit of research, including on the Untangling the Meereenese Knot essays. Forgive me if book details aren't 100% perfect.
> 
> P.S. This is my FIRST EVER posted fanfiction. Please don't read the "end notes" until you've finished, because it contains major spoilers.
> 
> UPDATED NOTE: I am no longer pleased with this fic. I've contemplated deleting it, but I'll keep it up for now. I can't rewrite it right now because I'm again swamped with work. I'm not happy with it because I was too focused on silly BNF theories and pleasing people, when I shouldn't have been, and now I have different thoughts on many characters, namely the Lannister twins.

{WINTERFELL I}

There he lay, battle weary and bone-sore in the Lord's chamber, light entering through the diamond-shaped windows from the fires still burning. Gently, Lady Sansa stroked his brow and cleaned the ash from his wounds, applying a calming salve as she hummed Jenny's song, bewitching. His granite-grey eyes, grey as Winterfell itself, remained fixed on her. Her lovely face shone pale and rosy, with fine, high cheekbones and cascading auburn locks that fell over her breast. Dim firelight revealed vague shapes of wolves flitting across the ceiling, and the room smelled of sweat and herbs._ 'Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave...'_ Jon knew the words as she finished.

_'There are no heroes... In life, the monsters win,'_ Sansa thought, recalling a bitter memory from the South. Yet, here lay a one, against all chance. One who brokered peace between the wildlings and the Northmen. One who had helped to restore Winterfell to the Starks from the hated House Bolton. One who had stood and fought the monsters of old without reprieve, on foot through the terrible tempests when the fiery beasts could not take wing, and commanded his men on the field until the last cold-blooded creature lay vanquished. He could be a hero of the North, here in the Lord's bedchamber, but not out there, beside the Mother of Dragons.

Jon had sworn vows, broken them, and honored them again. All crows are liars. _‘Wind and words,’_ he remembered Maester Aemon's wise counsel. _‘Our honor means no more than our lives, so long as the realm is safe,’_ he recalled the Halfhand. _‘Never forget what you are.’_ Jon Snow was the blood of Winterfell, the blood of House Stark, bastard or not. He even died like one. The North was in his bones, and he promised to pay whatever wicked price to protect it. He made friends of his enemies, called truces in war, and played the part of the Northern fool when it suited him. Still a liar, and still a crow in his way, crowing the words he'd heard before. All for the realm, for the North, for Winterfell... and now, for Sansa.

All these things Sansa didn’t know. He had not told her, yet now, she had her ill-born bastard half-brother placed in the Lord’s chamber on the Lord’s bed - the highest sign of honor she could have given him without offending the new Queen. He did not belong here. He was not Ned's son anymore, not even by a tavern wench. The truth was far worse, and it was never the right time to reveal the secret to Sansa. She did not yet know the liar and turncloak he was, and Jon despaired she would not sympathize, as if Sansa's tongue had never spun a lie in her life or she had never lived as a bastard in the Vale. Perhaps they were both gifted in this, and would never know who won the tilt.

Resplendent and radiant she was, the touch of her hands as light as a feather. They had never been close as children, never confided or played together, but what they had built since their reunion in the North was steadfast. It was not the same warm affection Jon felt for little Arya, nor the same as Sansa felt for her trueborn brother, Robb. It was contrasting, at times tumultuous, and often bewildering. At times, Sansa thought this blossoming softness she felt for her half-brother brought her too close to Cersei, which horrified her. It was an impossible affair. They couldn't. Jon would never. She didn't dare say anything or act upon it. Her father's shade would curse her. Arya would never understand. Arya was always Jon's sister, from when they were little, and Jon was a man grown by the time Sansa had truly known him.

Besides the point, Jon had sworn himself to a new, beautiful Queen with the hellish power of dragons. And she rightly was beautiful, even more so than Cersei, riding into Winterfell with her silvery white hair and silver bells and her white lionskin cape upon her white horse. Perhaps Sansa would have been enamoured with Daenerys, too, if she had still been the stupid girl who paid no heed to the warnings, as she once did with the Golden Lion. Dread tore at her heart. The wolves were in the dragon's claws now, and she couldn't stand it. She would say Winterfell was at the Queen's service, of course, but the words left a bitter taste in her mouth. Jon was still King in Sansa's heart. 

Soft petals fell from blue winter roses within a glass vase. Deep voices echoed distantly from beyond the barred chamber. Jon's heavy-lidded eyes hadn't slept in what felt like months, yet he gave the sweet lady a gentle half-smile despite his split lip, and she kissed him over his brow, so flutteringly light as if she were a butterfly herself. She would watch over and protect him tonight, while the others recovered from battle. Indeed, how sweet it was to see him once again.

Jon dreamed of the five-pointed sanguine leaves cascading from the billowing white heart tree - an ancient guardian towering overhead, surrounded by oaks and elms. It was spring, so it had to be a dream. A fair maiden in sky-blue silks sat beside the dark pool, its waters tranquil and a mirror to the weirwood above. Sunlight slashed through the treetops and danced in her hair, glimmering red as geranium. At her slippered feet lay a slender, pale wolf with eyes the shade of honey._ 'Lady',_ he thought. The gentle she-wolf... She had been unjustly slain and stolen from Sansa, so this truly was a dream. All around him, merry snow shrikes sung their charming tunes to each other, and to Sansa, and Sansa sung as well, brushing Lady's soft, downy fur with a golden comb. Some flowery song about princes and knights. 

Jon wondered if the spearwife he'd once loved and left bore some semblance to the gentle lady, had the spearwife ever donned a fine silk dress. No, no... Ygritte was no willowy damsel nor a princess awaiting her valiant hero. No... that was Sansa. A highborn beauty, sweeter than springtime, forbidden to a lowly bastard such as he. An impossible love, something he knew he could never have. He bit his lip, tragically smitten and spellbound, letting his dark hair hide half of his turncloak face. Sansa did not notice and sustained her celestial melody, trilling with the birds aflutter around her, echoing through the godswood.

A storm of swords clashed from the courtyard of the castle, and Longclaw was suddenly in hand, crimson eyes aglow. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight!" Jon called out gallantly, his iron tones ringing with valor.

"Well, I'm Florian the Fool... ... ..." a warm, russet voice chided. Jon knew it, from when he was a child. He spun around to look for his brother, Robb, but he was nowhere to be found.

The splitting shriek of dragonbreath woke him from across the snowy plain. Jon felt damp across his chest and legs from sweating beneath the furs. The hearth was warmly lit, and he glimpsed Sansa sitting gracefully at her mother's burnished bronze mirror, combing her locks to braid. She must have gone to bathe, for she carried a sweet fragrance of bellflowers. Her dress was fine-stitched slate-blue wool, embroidered with nightingales. Jon was still in his plain brown tunic, stinking of sweat, his body aching from the neck down. There came a sudden knock at the door. How long had he slept?

Jon's pained grimace flowered into a grin when he realized it was Sam, vital as ever. "Jon," Sam greeted him meekly, but cheerful. Jon embraced him in a brotherly hug, but winced at the pressure of Sam's cumbersome arms upon his sore back. "The Queen was... displeased you were not in the Great Hall to receive her upon the battle's end."

Jon's hearty smile vanished, as if hearing grave news. "Is Her Grace awaiting my presence?" he asked, his throat parched from the warm, dry air.

"I don't believe so. Half the men are still in their cups. Lady Sansa has a few of them building pyres outside as we speak. When that is finished, the men will clear the fallen from the field if the snow doesn't cover them," Sam answered pedantically. His pale gaze wandered curiously to Sansa, then to the disheveled bed, then to Jon in his tunic and breeches, but said nothing. Sam took a moment as Jon waited, and offered his true advice. "You don't have to, but it would lift the spirits of the widows and newly orphaned children if you spoke for them," he said, leaning closer to Jon as if telling a secret.

Jon nodded in agreement. "I will be there soon," he said. Sam gave a toothy grin and departed, with Jon shutting the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

{WINTERFELL II}

Upon the great timber pyres outside Winterfell's walls, thousands of fallen allies were given a solemn burial. Jon spoke for the fallen Northmen and brothers of the Night's Watch, while Samwell read the rites for those that followed the Seven. Daenerys addressed her horselords and eunuchs in husky foreign tongues - prayers to the Lady of Spears and to the Great Stallion. She'd lost her oldest friend and advisor in the battle, Ser Jorah Mormont, and kissed his cold body farewell. Ser Jorah loved her with all his heart, with a passion she could not return to him.

Firelight painted the frigid fog gold and crimson as the attendants dispersed. The choking smell of incinerating flesh reminded Jon of burials north of the Wall, and the smoke rose high as mountains. Side by side in traditional Stark cloaks, Jon and Sansa walked back to the Great Hall when suddenly, the Queen called out for Jon, her voice carrying as a courtly harp plucked on the wrong string. Together, the wolves turned and briefly bowed their heads to Daenerys. The Queen wore her white lion cloak hooded, as if she were emerging from the beast's living jaws. Heavy silver chains hung across her breast. The white and silver of her woven samite dress glittered underneath. Her white eyelashes and brows seemed as if eternally coated in snowflakes. She was unnerving, and enchanting.

"Your Grace," Jon said, respectfully as expected of him. She was waif-like and slight, appearing small even in her heavy white cloak.

"Lady Stark, may I speak with your brother alone?" she asked flatly. She did not need permission.

With a bare courtesy and truthfully relieved that she was being excused, Sansa answered, "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," before proceeding to the Great Keep alone through the crowd. 

"I am happy to see you unhurt. Would you walk with me?" she asked with a coy simper, and Jon obeyed. "I confess, I have never seen weather of this nature across the Narrow Sea. This constant darkness has my waking hours in knots," she said, making idle small talk.

They walked the high battlements, discussing her imminent second invasion of the South. A reckoning would come, she promised. Across the smoke and fog, Jon glimpsed the black silhouette of one of her firebreathing beasts - a dragon - flying in the distance like a great black bat, gorging on more sheep than a man could eat in a year.

"How soon do you plan on marching, Your Grace?" Jon asked.

"Immediately. The sooner the Usurper Queen lies dead and I hold the capital, the safer the Seven Kingdoms will be," Daenerys answered. "She may not expect us so soon. Perhaps there need not be a siege."

"If it pleases you," Jon said, passively. He did not look at her. She was mad to march south so soon. Not that the aloof Northmen wanted her and her armies to stay, but a forced march seemed folly.

When they reached the bottom of the stairwell again, Jon expected to be dismissed. Daenerys turned her lavender gaze to him and uttered, "It occurs to me that I have not received your formal surrender, Jon Snow." The entire courtyard fell silent, as if dead. "How forgetful of me," she added, beguilingly.

Sansa had begun to monitor their exchange from the balcony, high up in her father’s solar, as best she could. A wolf dove, perched high. _'Joffrey,'_ Sansa thought, recalling the cruel golden prince. Joffrey had once offered charms and courtesies, before his nature was unveiled. _'Joffrey would say that, or Cersei.'_

"Formal surrender, Your Grace?" Jon asked, his grey eyes narrowing with caution.

"Your oath of fealty, naturally," Daenerys stated gently. Jon had said some lofty words to her before in private, but never truly knelt for her. _Wind and words._ Now, here, he felt slighted and reluctant, and the timing of her request was completely amiss.

Churlishly, a grizzled Northman spat upon the ground. Daenerys turned her fiery stare to the man, and in an instant, an armored eunuch in a spiked cap seized him by the arm. Dread gripped at Jon's throat. She could kill him. She could kill them all and Jon would be powerless to stop it. "Please, Your Grace. I am ready to swear the oath!" he said, trying to conceal the plea in his voice. He thought of Sansa, and Arya, and Robb, and everyone who had proclaimed Jon as King. Sansa, who had been a Princess at his side and gazed at him faithfully on that glorious day he was chosen by the vassals. He betrayed her, and the Northmen, and now, he had to show them again, for the greater good. Jon tried not to grimace. 

_'How dare she,'_ Sansa thought. _'It's not necessary. She's already received his promise.'_ Sansa could sense Jon's anguish. He hid his emotions well, just as she did, when his survival depended on it.

Daenerys nodded in approval to Jon. He bent down on one knee, soreness wracking his legs, and solemnly fixed his eyes to the slush beneath Daenerys' spotless white boots. _'Don't look for Sansa,_' Jon thought. _'Don't.'_

Daenerys' violet gaze surveyed the gaunt, dreary onlookers from one end of the courtyard to the other and noticed something out of place. "Isn't it customary for your people to kneel with you?" she asked.

Jon looked to them, small chunks of ice frozen on their beards and brows, and sorrowfully, he bid them to kneel, too. The eunuch pushed the old Northman to his wobbling knees. The rest were stubborn, and took their time. Even the old crones were made to kneel, their fragile hips and knees be damned, and doe-eyed Gilly with weanling Aemon Steelsong at her breast. Jon was grateful Sansa was not watching. He thought of Robb - gallant Robb - in his wolf crown and Grey Wind at his side. What would Robb have said and done? Jon felt as if he were walking over Robb's bones. Still, he swallowed and steeled his heart, and mustered the words. "I, Jon Snow, once known as King in the North, renounce my claim to Winterfell and the North. I surrender my crown, my throne, my subjects, and pledge allegiance to Daenerys of House Targaryen. So I say in presence of the Old Gods and the New. Will that do, Your Grace?" He prayed she wouldn't bid him to list her twenty titles.

_'Fair enough,'_ she thought. "You may rise, Warden of the North," Daenerys said, gesturing her white-gloved hand as if she were raising him up off ground out like so many slaves in Essos.

It was a somber evening, even more so after that display. Jon meagerly attended her in the Great Hall, raising his goblet to hers in cheerless toasts - her loyal duckling and puppet to keep the Northmen in line. The people fell silent when she stood or spoke, and Jon couldn't help but feel the pangs of regret at what he'd brought into their home. He finished several cups of ale before Daenerys retired to her chambers alone. He was grateful for that.   


  
  
Above the Lord's chamber, Sansa paced in the high solar, a little bird on the highest perch of the castle. She had begun to grow winter roses in that austere stone tower, some growing taller than cats, surrounded by worn books and needlecraft. Sometimes, wild crows would perch on the balcony and beg her for corn. Sansa had grown accustomed to the musty smell of paper and pungent aroma of ink, but she had not come here to write. _'Should I start calling myself Alayne again?'_ she despaired._ 'I am stronger within the walls here... This is my home...'_ Sadness tugged on the corners of her mouth, enticing her to weep. She did not come to sup tonight in the Great Hall, not to drink, nor to eat. When Ned was alive, he would invite a new servant to sit with him at the Lord's table every evening. He wanted to know his people, their lives, and laments. Jon proudly adopted this practice until he left for Dragonstone, but not once since. Truly, it was for the best. The people had never forgotten the Mad King, and they were hardly concealing their mistrust of the Mad King's daughter now. Perhaps she would never return once she had her wicked Iron Throne - that was what Sansa hoped. What if Daenerys didn't intend to let the Warden of the North stay in the North? _Dread. _

The door creaked in the room below her, then pushed closed, and barred. She seated herself in a cushioned pine chair. Only a single candle lit the room, emitting gold shadows like flames up to the conical ceiling. Boots lightly made their way around the bedchamber below, until a black silhouette began to make its way up the spiral flight. When she saw his plaintive expression, her cerulean eyes gleamed accusatory.

"Sansa..." Jon softly conceded, stopping where he was. He wore no cloak now, only his brown armored tunic over blue wools. The scent of ale carried faintly on his breath. She hoped he was not drunk.

"She is a cruel woman, whether you see it or not," she said, breaking the dismal silence. _'No argument, Jon?'_ she thought. He didn't offer a fight with her the way he used to. He had changed. Now, he was in a constant state of being a hostage in his own home. She knew that, as she'd been a hostage in King's Landing.

"So, you saw what happened," he said, low, and ashamed. He glanced to the floor and slowly back to Sansa, eye-level with her as she sat with both hands in her lap.

She shifted. "You shouldn't have to kneel for anyone after what you've done for us. _You_ won the battle. _You did._ Not any dragons or Dragon Queen. It was you, and they all know it," she said, her silken voice becoming weaker than she liked.

"I didn't do it alone, and it doesn't change our predicament," he answered, modestly.

As she inhaled deeply, her lips flushed pink. "I lived under Cersei and Joffrey for years. They wore courtesy and kindness as their masks, but hid monsters within," she explained, and revisited harrowing memories from the Red Keep. Her father's lifeless head, and Septa Mordane nearby. Huddling and sobbing beside Jeyne Poole for days, before Jeyne was stolen away. The wallop of gauntleted fists, and the sting of the flats of swords across her legs. She spared Jon the painful details... it would only infuriate him.

Perhaps Daenerys had freed slaves in Essos and done a few good deeds with her power. She held off on her conquest of King's Landing to pursue the Great War, for the bargain of receiving the North's fealty in return, but there were signs that Sansa couldn't unsee. "I know what happened to the Tarly men, Jon - your friend Samwell's family - when they refused to kneel for her. A father and a son, just like our grandfather and uncle." She brought herself to her feet. 

Still, Jon offered no opposition. "I know what she is..." he began, "... and what she's capable of, but making a friend of her was the only choice I had. I was her prisoner. You can say you were right. It was a trap. I didn't just pledge myself to her, if that's what you thought. I had to... persuade her. After her dragon fell, I meant to come home, but she took me on her ship while I slept. I thought I was dead." _Again._ "I know my being King was important to you and the rest of them out there, but what would it matter if I stayed King and let us die with pride? What if she killed me to force you to kneel? What if..." he trailed off, sadly. "I learned how to make ugly choices in the Watch. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Softening, she answered, "... I know."

"She would have flown here as a conqueror with her beasts we have no means of fighting and turned them on us. I couldn't let that happen," he explained. "Instead, I pointed them at mutual enemies. It was a risk." He began to approach Sansa slowly. "Hate me if you will, but I did it for us."

Avoiding his look now, she acquiesced. "I could never hate you," she said, meekly. His reasoning was understandable, but difficult to swallow. She thought of Robb and everyone who fought for him. Would he have made the same choice as Jon? No, not Robb. Brave Robb never betrayed his own heart. Part of her laughed at what Robb might have said to this Targaryen Queen with her many lofty titles, for Robb had no filter. 

Relentingly, she merged her brilliant azure eyes with Jon's. Her skin shone fair, and half of her gleaming scarlet hair was twisted elegantly atop her head, with the rest falling to her hip. Softly, Jon took one of her hands from below, holding her dainty ivory fingers in his, and stroked the top with his thumb. He had a gentle touch with her, always. He'd disappointed her, but to hear her accept his fault was a relief.

His bottom lip was swollen where he'd taken a blow, pink and red where it hurt. Haltingly, she gazed at his long, wolfish face. He had the Stark look, but where her father was rugged and wrinkled, and her uncle Benjen was thinner with no softness, Jon was beautiful. He had a straight nose - not aquiline or broken - and a strong jaw, not too square. His hair was parted over his left brow, the way Ser Loras had worn his the day he gave her a red rose. He reminded her of Ser Waymar. Jon was... dare she say, _pretty?_ Whomever his mother was, she must have been a beauty. His eyes fixed on her, both wells of black ice, all-seeing. Dark and intriguingly handsome, indeed. He would have been the bane of many maidens had he never gone to the Wall, and even there, Jon had mentioned there was one girl, but nothing more. She almost wanted to - no... it was wrong. They shared the same father. It wasn't right.

Devotedly, she placed both of her hands high on his leather tunic, below his throat. _'Just hold me,'_ she thought. Such gentle touches unmanned him, and he knew he would do anything for her. _Anything._

Silently, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Softly, she pressed her brow to his jaw, where he wasn't sore, for she knew he was still in pain. A soft caress. Jon, in turn, nuzzled her brow affectionately, and couldn't help but entwine his fingers within her silky ginger strands. His thoughts drifted to arrogant, vain Harry Hardyng on his knightly destrier, set to inherit the Vale of Arryn. Was Sansa still to marry him? Did she want to? Of course she wanted to. The knight was of high birth and treated her well enough. If she didn't love him now, she would certainly grow to, and that prospect tore at Jon's soul. She deserved to be at home, with Arya and the ghosts of her mother, father, and brothers, not carted off again. Jon saw the way Harry looked at her, both in lust and as a coveted, prized bride. It made the wolf inside him growl.

There was something Jon needed to say tonight - something Jon meant to tell her before he left, about her father. _Her father_, not his. He smelled and nuzzled her hair - a bewitching bouquet of poppy scarlet, and the hint of ale on his own lips. He had to find the right words. "Sansa..." he swallowed, taking his time. "There’s something you need to know...” He almost had the words, but he was scared she would flee, or lose faith in him if she knew what he really was. He was the seed of a hated Targaryen, and all of Jon's deceptions and lies and her disappointment in him would make perfect sense. Not just a bastard, but a bastard with the Mad King's blood. It frightened him. He never wanted it. It hurt enough to discover that Ned Stark wasn't his true father.

As she turned her captivating sapphire gaze to him again, all words except mad declarations of devotion vanished. "I have to leave soon," he said. He'd lost his nerve.

Now, the declarations came for Sansa. "I don't want you to go," she said. "I hate to see you leave. I hate it. We need you here," she continued, reaching up and stroking his stern brow and cheek as the tears started to stream down her lovely face. _'I need you here,'_ she clarified to herself. _'I don't feel safe unless I __know you're watching over me.'_ How she let her guard down with this man. He wanted nothing from her. He asked for nothing. Perhaps that was why she trusted him so. 

He took her hand and lightly pressed the soft skin to his lips. "Once this is done, I'll come back. Things will be better soon, I promise." He wouldn't leave, at least not tonight. That was for the morning. He'd stay while he could. No Queen would rob him of that.

Sansa still preserved her modesty by dressing behind a wooden screen, and they did not touch upon bed, even using separate furs. They were not lovers, nor true siblings, but something pure and chaste, beyond any carnal desire, just taking comfort in hearing the other breathe. The fluttering of her butterfly eyelashes as she drifted off were wondrously endearing to Jon's heart.

_'Sleep, sweet lady... I will watch over you...' _  
  


  
Later in what Sam insisted was the morning, Jon was roused from peaceful dreams to prepare for the arduous journey south. Daenerys' handmaiden had tried to wake Jon in his designated room down the hall, but he was not there. The Unsullied rose quickly, disassembling their entire camp in an hour. The Northern contingent would take longer to assemble due to their less rigid organization, and being wholly disinterested in their new cause. Jon was not to march alongside them down the Kingsroad, but to accompany the Queen to Dragonstone, by her wish. Jon requested from Sam the essence of nightshade in a copious quantity, should the Queen call on him during lonely nights. The thought of her lust made him ill.

Arya dressed in her warrior's brown leathers and a warm leather-and-fur cloak. She meant to march down the Kingsroad, too - adamant to see Cersei's demise with her own eyes. For an hour at breakfast, her presence uplifted Jon's spirits, making him smile. She sat beside him in the Great Hall and gave him a farewell hug before he joined the Queen's procession.

Across the yard, Sansa stood with stoic rune-armored Yohn Royce and her betrothed, handsome Harry Hardyng, waiting to see the Queen's entourage off. Sansa looked every bit the liege Lady of the North with her fine auburn locks half-tied over a cloak of silky silver fox - so much like her mother, Lady Catelyn. Sansa even idled her hands like a lady, held neatly together.

Exiting the Great Hall first in formation were the Queensguard - a small unit of grim Unsullied in spiked caps, carrying their black spears and massive shields. Daenerys wore her silver-white hair in elaborate, crisscrossing braids and a small silver crown depicting dragon's heads. Again, she wore her white cloak with white gloves and boots. Following her was her sworn sword - white-bearded Ser Barristan Selmy, her handmaiden - Missandei of Naath, her Hand of the Queen - Tyrion Lannister, and beside him walked her tamed wolf, Jon Snow. Jon seemed to sulk, a royal duckling following the leader, and tried not to look to the Lady of Winterfell. Daenerys mounted her elegant white mare, as Barristan mounted his destrier. Jon mounted his horse, too, while Sansa's cerulean eyes remained heartsick and fixed on him. When he finally gave in to look, she gracefully raised her gloved hand in a pining, silent farewell. Jon mustered a small smile and returned the lovelorn gesture, but immediately halted upon realizing that Tyrion was watching. Tyrion was not the bookish lecher he remembered from years ago. Neither of them were the same men, in truth. Jon was nonetheless grateful Tyrion would ride in a carriage with the softer members of Daenerys' company to White Harbour, and not on horseback beside him. As Jon cantered away, he weakened and gave one last glimpse to his dear Lady as he departed, imprinting the sweet sight of her on his soul. _'I serve the North... No matter what I must say or do... I serve the North...'_

On the outskirts of winter town, a white shadow lingered off the beaten path. Not so close as to provoke the Unsullied, but close enough that Jon could spy him. "Ghost?" Jon whispered, dismounting his horse and reaching out to the direwolf. Ghost approached without a sound and sniffed at Jon's gloves. Ghost's eyes shone blood-red, like the leaves of a heart tree. The wolf's tail swished side to side in happy affection.

"Stay here and watch over her," Jon said, petting him, looking back once again toward the grey castle. "Watch over her for me..." He mounted his horse again and galloped away, leaving the wolf and Winterfell behind.

Sansa didn't shed tears for it. She knew in her heart that Daenerys would take him away sooner or later. Yet, she stood there lovesick and biting her lip, gazing after the last King in the North, hoping with all her might that he would return on the morrow. Arya interrupted her enamoured yearning with a sobering hug, quick as a cat. Sansa's lips flowered into a smile for her sister. Arya had a strange, wild beauty about her now that she was a young woman. She wore her dark brown hair neatly tucked in a bun, and breeches - always breeches. "Send Cersei my regards, sister," Sansa said, admiring the water dancer Arya had become.

"I will. Be safe," Arya grinned, and stood still just long enough for Sansa to kiss her on the cheek before riding southward alone.


	3. Chapter 3

{WINTERFELL III}

(A letter sealed in wax with the sigil of House Stark)

_"Over twenty years ago, your father brought home from Robert's Rebellion a baby and the body of his sister, Lady Lyanna. The crypt, Sansa. The one he never talked about. She was my mother."_

Days came and passed since Sansa read the letter she found hidden under her pillow in the Lord's chamber. Her entire world was frozen in ice, but after an eternity in thought, Sansa coped with the tragedy of the truth. Ned Stark sheltered his beloved sister's son after she died on the birthing bed, passing the baby off as his own baseborn child, and took the secret to his grave. He hid the boy in plain sight, though King Robert would have demanded Jon's head if the secret was discovered - all for being born of a Targaryen father. The Targaryen who, by all accounts, stole and ravaged Lady Lyanna. Lady Catelyn resented the boy from the moment she arrived in Winterfell and found that Ned already had a son within the castle. Where most Lords would have sent their bastards away, Jon grew up alongside the trueborn Starks, and bore more of the Stark look than any of them. Catelyn detested him. She always wanted him gone. She encouraged her children to be cold to him. She encouraged _Sansa_ to be cold to him, and he was only a motherless boy. It seemed only Arya saw him as a true brother back then, and never judged him poorly. How Sansa wished he was here. They had much to discuss on his return.

Jon was not her half-brother anymore, but her cousin. Were her blossoming feelings for him so abominable now? Rickard and Lyarra Stark - her grandparents - were cousins. Her aunt Lysa had once thought to marry her to her son, sickly Robert Arryn. She recalled that in the Stark family histories, it had been quite common when they were numerous. She listed a dozen cousin unions permitted by the Old Gods and the Seven. Alas, she despaired, _'Seven Hells! I could never marry Jon. He doesn't see me that way...' _Or did he? He was no lecher. He didn't look at her the way other men did when they liked what they saw. He looked at her like he knew her beyond her beauty, and wanted to protect her... Perhaps the way Prince Aemon the Dragonknight tragically looked to his dear Naerys, in their tale of impossible love... yes, _love_. 

It could never be. Her hand was still pledged to handsome Harry the Heir, and Jon remained her father's acknowledged bastard in the eyes of the North. There was no chance for her and Jon.

Harry seemed eager to wed in those dreary days at the castle, walking in the godswood with her and supping together, but Sansa gently insisted a Stark must always remain in Winterfell. He asked her to sing "Alysanne" for him, which she obliged, entrancing him with her nightingale voice. Harry expected that Sansa would marry him once her half-brother returned as Warden of the North. Had Sansa still been a child, she would have married Harry on the spot, for he was every inch the husband of a highborn lady's dreams - dashing, gallant, and straight as a lance - only not of _her_ dreams anymore. She only dreamed of Winterfell and the Starks now... and Jon.

In the modest sept, Sansa revisted the ghosts of her childhood - Mother, Father, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Jeyne - even though she was not dead, Jory, Rodrick, Beth, Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin, and perhaps... even Theon Greyjoy. She recalled reuniting with Jeyne Poole when Lord Glover came to swear allegiance following the defeat of House Bolton, and she hid Jeyne in the castle, though her friend was almost unrecognizable due to damage from frostbite on her face. In private, Jeyne swore that Lord Baelish paid the gold cloaks to massacre the Stark household in King's Landing, after which, she was taken to one of his brothels. Lord Baelish conspired with House Bolton, while also hiding a true Stark in his grasp - Sansa, herself. He ordered terrible things done to Jeyne, grooming her to pose as Sansa's missing sister, Arya, to lend legitimacy to House Bolton's wardenship of the North. Any muddy feelings of sympathy Sansa once held for Lord Baelish turned to ice. Eventually, with testimonies from both Sansa and a revealed Jeyne, Petyr was tried and executed outside the walls of Winterfell while Jon was away at Dragonstone. She told a damning tale about the murders of Lysa and Jon Arryn, turning the Valemen against him so compellingly that they would've ran him through on the spot. She cleverly passed over Guest Right by riding with Petyr out of winter town, where the trial was held. Underhanded, for certain, but that didn't matter now. Jeyne remained in Winterfell, but preferred to wear a scarf around her face, which made folk wary of her in case she carried disease. It would be many years before Jeyne was truly Jeyne again. Sansa would wait. 

She lit a candle to the Mother for Sandor Clegane, who had perished in the battle with the Others. She hadn't spoken to him since the Battle of the Blackwater, when he savagely stole a hymn from her at swordpoint. Once, she dreamed that he came to rescue her in the Eyrie as he did during the riot in King's Landing. What would she have said? Would he have snapped at her yet again, ever the vicious dog? She hoped the Mother gentled the rage inside him after all.

She thought of her once-husband, Lord Tyrion. He had not cut his hair in years, and it had faded pale. The ghastly scar slashed across his face was well-healed, but his face was now lined and leathery. Sansa courteously asked him about Shae, her former handmaiden, and where she was. Tyrion merely answered, “Wherever whores go.” It unnerved her. He never spoke to her again. Perhaps he suffered for Joffrey’s death. Perhaps he resented her for escaping. She would not ask, and he would not tell. 

As she stepped out of the sept, a lordly voice beckoned. "Would you honor me with a ride beneath the stars, Lady Stark?" She turned to see Harry dressed in a fur cloak and his helm, standing next to his knightly destrier. "I fear we cannot see them from under the light of your castle."

_'Men...'_ she thought, unimpressedly, wringing her gloved hands, _'... and the stupid things they do for women.'_ Harry was still courting her. The knight enjoyed a chase, though he was already promised her hand. Would he take offence if she refused? Was that... the aroma of delicious lemony lemons she smelled on him?

"Very well, Ser," she answered, flashing a coy smile.

Even through the fur cloak, she could tell he was lean and strong. Effortlessly, Harry lifted her atop his destrier, both legs on one side. He mounted behind her and charged gallantly through the gates and across endless fields of sparkling snow, under a sky glittering with brilliant jewels beyond counting. It was breathtaking. Sansa had never ridden so fast on a horse. It almost made her want to be one. His chest was hard muscle behind her, and his arms eclipsed her. Child Sansa would have fainted with delight.

Finally, Harry slowed the destrier, bringing them to a halt at a lonely oak in sight of the treeline of the Wolfswood. Winterfell was but a glowing hut in the distance. Harry dismounted first, then aided Sansa down, as knightly custom. He planned this through, for he pulled from the saddle an ox skin, just wide enough for two of them to sit upon, and hobbled his horse to the tree. From a tin within the saddle bag, he brought a treat so tempting, Sansa could not resist. Lemon cakes. Surely, these had to be made from the very latest lemons of autumn and would be the last lemon cakes until spring.

The tartness of the first bite made her mouth water. He watched her contentedly, even a dainty lady as she nibbled. Harry pondered aloud about their future. "When we are wed, I will take you back to Ironoaks, if you wish. Or, the Gates of the Moon. Ser Yohn would gladly host us until spring." He'd removed his helm, revealing the mass of sandy blonde locks and true-blue eyes. He almost looked like Loras Tyrell, though Harry was certainly interested in women. "One day, our sons will rule the Vale and Winterfell both," he went on. The prospect once delighted her, when she was still Alayne Stone and far from home. "I could make you happy, My Lady, if you let me." He truly was handsome, and vain, and bold - for he leaned closer to her, his dimpled smile quite alluring. He meant to kiss her, and she let him. Their lips caressed fleetingly for a moment, after which Harry leaned back to his seat upon the fur, grinning like an idiot.

Her ears began to burn hot with girlish bashfulness. He knew what to say and do to make her blush, she granted him that much. He'd fought to win her home for House Stark, as Jon did, but Harry did it for a wife and for future children with a claim. _'Jon,'_ she thought, quick to despair. She'd almost forgotten him between the sweet-and-tart lemon cake and the shimmering stars above. Jon, whom she could never wed. Jon, whom wanted nothing from her except to keep her safe. _'No man will marry me for love,'_ she thought. Even as the Lady of Winterfell, she was part of another marriage plot.

She thought of the first time she saw Harry, when he arrogantly insulted her as Littlefinger's bastard. Harry had two baseborn daughters of his own, neither of which he seemed very fond of. Who was to say for certain he wouldn't wander to make more after she married him? Alayne had been a bastard, as Harry's daughters would grow up to be, and as Jon still was. If she left with Harry, she would have the lordly husband she always wanted, and many lovely children. If she left with Harry, both the North and the Vale would benefit from the strengthened alliance. If she left with Harry... Winterfell would no longer be her home, and she may never see Jon again.

She knew the truth - she would wait forever in the snowy haven. Even if Jon had no birthright, no fortune, no throne, nothing more than his sword and his wolf... None of it was as sweet as love.

Cersei was wrong. Love was not poison. What would the Lannister woman know? She was poison, herself. 

Sansa would wait until Jon came home. Dread gripped her throat, and a small part of her knew she would regret her first words of irrevocable truth to Harry once they left her lips. She had to say them, for both their sakes. "Harry... I..." she began, her voice faltering. Undoubtedly, Harry would find another highborn lady to marry, but men such as Jon were seldom born every century. She felt faint. "... I can't..."

Harry's smile faded, acquiescingly despondent. He had her answer now. For a long moment, nothing happened. He mustered a small nod of understanding, softening his noble brow. Tears bled into his own eyes as Sansa tried to stand, and everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

{DRAGONSTONE I}

Dragonstone loomed above the harsh winter waves of Blackwater Bay - a great shadow in the dark of the smoking Dragonmount. Dozens of monumental serpently silhouettes leered and snarled from the high castle walls, beckoning and cautioning every soul who entered there.

The Chamber of the Painted Table fell silent as a grave as Daenerys received news from across the Narrow Sea. Though Daenerys crushed every known stronghold of the Wise Masters of Yunkai and their allies from the Free Cities upon her return from Vaes Dothrak, vestiges of the Great Masters remained hidden in Meereen. Daario Naharis and his sellswords abandoned the city some weeks after Daenerys departed the Bay of Dragons, leaving the Shavepate as sole ruler in the Great Pyramid. She had executed the wrong men at the heart of the conspiracy, it seemed - including her husband, Hizdahr zo Loraq - or perhaps, not enough of them.

Observing quietly, Jon noticed that her handmaiden, Missandei, shift ever so slightly in her seat. Even her lively curls could not conceal the solemnness on her round, dusky face. She seemed perturbed to hear the news.

“The Harpy has risen again," Daenerys stated, crumpling the letter. "... and Daario Naharis has betrayed me." She coldly fed the parchment to a torch of dragonclaw.

“My sympathies, Your Grace, but it was expected of him. Have you heard the expression, 'While the cat is away, the mice shall play?' He didn’t have you to keep him," Tyrion said, twisting a coin in his little hand as he relaxed in an ebony chair.

Clouds eddied on the horizon, catching moonlight in shades of blue. "What other news?" Daenerys asked flatly, gazing eastward across the sea. Her silver hair seemed to crisscross in snakes made of braids, all white and shining down her back. She wore her circlet of silver dragons and a purple winter gown, which accentuated her violet eyes.

"The Iron Bank has ceased all loans to Cersei, and they've helpfully offered to fund her enemies - Your Grace, specifically - if you promise to repay them once Cersei lies dead or deposed, with interest. Sunspear has refused all of our letters since your dragon killed their Princeling... though, as Your Grace is aware, they threw their lot in with your nephew, who has since been slain in the Stormlands. Houses Velaryon and Celtigar have sworn themselves to you now that Aegon is dead. Dorne has declared independence, as have the Iron Islands." Tyrion added.

"Have they, now? You are dismissed," Daenerys said, placing her elegant hands upon the painted table, examining her would-be kingdom. Everyone save for Tyrion and Ser Barristan vacated the chamber. A wall relief of a massive dragon's head seemed to snarl at them.

"Three hundred years ago, my ancestors sat at this very table and planned their conquest of a continent. Ser Jorah once told me that they did not seize the kingdoms because they had any right to them, but because they could. How could one small house from Old Valyria on a little island on the Narrow Sea have possibly done so? Dragons. My power has always been the dragons," she said, her breath weighty as if it carried fire. Ser Barristan frowned beneath his white-bearded face, but Daenerys did not notice.

"Indeed. Your diplomacy in Meereen was well-intentioned, Your Grace, but you are wiser, now. What use is power, if you never apply it?" Tyrion asked from his seat. The question was rhetorical.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Ser Barristan asked. "I remember the day the Meereenese farmer placed his child's bones at your feet. You chained your dragons that day so they would never harm innocents."

Daenerys turned her fiery violet gaze to him, beautiful and terrifying. "I ceased to be a Queen that day, and only became one again when I flew with Drogon for the first time. I'd forgotten what I was when I shut them away - and what I was meant to be," Daenerys said.

Barristan did not give up. "You made peace in Meereen, my Queen. You can still make peace in your homeland," Ser Barristan insisted.

"There will be peace once I have the capital and my enemies lie in ashes, but not before. What would you do in my place, Ser Barristan? If I leave my dragons behind and besiege King's Landing, tens of thousands will starve. Perhaps they would give us Cersei's head, but the blood of innocents would still be on my hands," she said. Appealingly, she continued, "I know, it is an ugly decision, my knight, but I am the Mother of Dragons. My children are grown. I've waited long enough." Ser Barristan bowed his head and conceded defeat. "I wish to be alone now. You may go," she said, turning to the balcony again.

She'd been born within these halls during a shattering summerstorm that smashed the Targaryen fleet. Dragonstone was the last loyalist stronghold during the War of the Usurper, and held out just long enough for her mother, Queen Rhaella, to give birth to her. _'Daenerys,'_ Rhaella named her, shortly before slipping away, she was told. Perhaps her mother's ashes yet rested here, somewhere.

The fearsome ebony throne in the Stone Drum was the same upon which Aegon the Conqueror sat, and the brother she never knew - Rhaegar. Balerion the Black Dread once perched upon the Dragonmount, and now, Balerion reborn - her bonded dragon, Drogon - perched there. Dragonstone was full of ghosts.

Later that night after the Queen retired to her royal bedchamber, Missandei attended her as was customary. The chamber was grand and grotesque, with black marble walls veined in scarlet. Ancient reliefs of dragons decorated the massive headboard above the Queen's bed, and black curtains fell around it. Disquieted and disheartened about Meereen, Missandei did not speak cheerfully as usual as she washed her Queen's hair.

"What's troubling you, my dear?" Daenerys asked, her voice rich with concern as she watched the steam rise from polished ebony tub.

Missandei stilled, submerging her Queen's silky silver locks back into the ambrosia-scented water, unsure of what to expect. "Your Grace, may I ask something of you?"

"You may," Daenerys granted.

"Across the Narrow Sea..." Missandei began, her voice deferential and soft, "... you once said that we who chose to serve you were free to leave if we wished." Missandei hoped she would not offend her.

Daenerys turned to her handmaiden, a forbidding look on her damp skin. She knew what she meant to ask. "I can't let you go. We are at war, and I need you here." Missandei sat stunned, but had no response. "I expect it will go on for some time, with the outliers declaring independence and such..." Daenerys said, trying to soften her answer for the timid scribe. Daenerys sighed, faced ahead again, and tried to enjoy her hot bath. "I promised you a ship, but I need every ship now. I know you want to go home, as do I."

"When will I be permitted to leave, Your Grace?" Missandei asked, almost impertinent.

"When I have released you," her Queen curtly answered.

With that, Missandei understood her place and detachedly continued to wash Daenerys' hair. She sat obediently and subserviently, almost wishing she could strike the Queen while defenseless, until she was finally dismissed.

When the castle slept, Missandei rose from her bed and crept down the many black spirals to the barracks for her handsome Unsullied lover, Grey Worm. Missandei noticed that more of the Unsullied had begun to pay attention to her beauty in the years they had been free, as Grey Worm had. Some visited brothels, others ate and drank too much, and a few even reverted to their birth names. It was not something Missandei expected to see from slaves who had their personhood so utterly stolen, though she could understand, for she was once a slave to the Good Masters of Astapor. Someday, she'd hoped to belong only to herself, but that dream was fading...

In High Valyrian, Missandei and Grey Worm whispered, trying to remain quiet as the other soldiers slept. "Come with me tonight, my love. Let us escape. We could go anywhere. Perhaps the Summer Isles. You could not come to Naath for the fever, I fear," Missandei said softly, holding Grey Worm's callused bare hands in hers. His coiled brown hair had been shorn again, but he never grew a beard. Always, his face remained smooth and hard as marble. Missandei enjoyed it that way.

"I cannot. If I leave, my underlings will want to follow me. Have you brought this petition to the Queen?" he asked, hesitant.

"Yes. I wear no collar, but it makes no difference. If we do not leave now, we will never leave this country. There are no slaves here to free, my love, except ourselves. Where is the pay you've earned as a free man?" she asked. "What noble purpose do we serve except to place another master in a palace?" she continued, striving to get through to his stubborn heart as she pressed her lips to his. "She has changed. She is not the saviour who set us free. You must see this. Grey Worm, you must."

As the sleeping Unsullied began to stir in their beds from the whispers, Grey Worm intensified his harrowed expression. Her golden eyes pleaded for him to leave, but his loyalty was too strong.

"I cannot. I will not. We have sworn ourselves to her. I will not flee as a deserter. Never," he said, adamantly, pushing her hands from his. Missandei, aghast and crestfallen, backed away from him. Why would he choose this over their love?

"Beloved, please. I'm begging you... please... come with me... save yourself. Save us both," she whispered in tears. 

"No. Go back to your quarters and weep this away," he said, too strongly.

She shook her head in disbelief and fled back into the dark. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart, seeing her beautiful face betrayed. It was not easy for him to refuse her request, but he did not know another way. Grey Worm always had decisions made for him, and Daenerys determined his. Perhaps Missandei was stronger. She still had memories of the Peaceful People of Naath, and he was only ever a slave - only vermin. In Astapor, he recalled those horrific days and nights for years on end until Daenerys arrived and freed him, burning the masters alive. A glorious day. Still, there was a shadow in his heart telling him he'd just made a terrible mistake. She was no Good Master of Astapor, that was true, but what Missandei said was also true - that there were no slaves in this land to free, except...

"Grey Worm, is it true? She will not let us leave?" one soldier asked from his bunk, still in the Valyrian tongue.

"No. It is not true!" Grey Worm responded, louder than he liked in his Ghiscari growl.

"Why is she not returning to Meereen? Does she not care for those we left behind? Enslaved again!" said another soldier from a different bunk.

"This land is frozen. This land is more inhospitable than a desert. I hate the food, and the people. They gawk at me like a Master's brat. I want to go home," said another, too far down the rows of beds for Grey Worm to see.

He frowned, looking away from his men, and whispered forcefully again in Valyrian. "Silence these traitor words from your lips. You will speak no more of this. That is my order. Now, obey," he said, telling himself it was for their own good. Though a small part of his soul saw the merit in their words, Grey Worm was steadfastly loyal and could not be swayed. He owed Daenerys his very life. The Mother of Spears herself could not make him leave.

Desolate in Aegon's Garden, Jon waited - a foggy, gated oasis littered by thornbushes and ominous statues of menacing wyverns and demons. The place smelled of pine, smoke, and the sea. And dark sorcery - the whole castle reeked of it. Jon hid his disdain well. He wore black mail now, with the crest of the three-headed dragon over his heart. The twin wolves of his own breastplace displeased Her Grace, it seemed. Missandei had brought him the new armor when he woke. She'd taken his Stark plate and attempted to take his cloak - the heavy fur cloak Sansa had gifted him - but he refused, so fiercely like a cornered wolf that he frightened the pretty Naathi handmaiden.

Sansa, sweet Sansa, so far away across the sea and snow, brushing out Lady's coat and singing, _"I'm half a fish, I'll have you know."_ He smiled, because her mother was a leaping trout of Tully. He'd dreamed that once. A sweet dream of springtime. Wild roses grew scattered in the emerald maze of hedges and the looming pines overhead. Some were black and dead, withered with decay. Yet, a few remained frozen in glittering frost - red as riverlands clay. Red as blood. Red as Sansa's hair.

She must have read his letter by now. There was no taking it back. She would know what he was. While a gentle thing, she was not easy to frighten. She knew him better than anyone alive, now. They would have much to discuss on his return. How she would descend from the Great Keep and leap into his arms to welcome him home - something worthy of a song. Jon laughed at the image in his mind's eye. He'd be part of a song for her, if that's what she wanted. Anything for her. 

_'What will this Queen have of me next?'_ Jon thought in silence as he sat upon a frigid stone bench. _'Curse Lord Stark's name, Robb, and the North? Robb... Would he have done this? No, no... Not Robb. Never. Is this what I'm to be remembered for - a Northern fool, a traitor's bastard, a craven, and a concubine? A tamed wolf to bring the pack to heel. I should never have left Winterfell for this cursed island. The Others could not have crossed the Wall if not for her folly, if she had not been there to give them a dragon...'_

He thought of what Lord Glover once said about Robb, and twisted the cutting words to himself like a cruel knife. In the voices of a thousand Northmen, he could hear, _'I served Jon Snow once, but Jon Snow is dead. Where was Lord Snow when the horselords were loosed upon my lands - ravaging and pillaging every keep and village? Where was Jon Snow when an army of eunuchs threw the Stark girls in prison - brutalized and killed his subjects? Taking up with a foreign whore, getting himself and those who followed him killed.'_

Dread gripped at his heart. This was a dark place, with dark spells and dark shades. The grey smoke from the Dragonmount above and the biting cold breeze played tricks upon his weary eyes and ears. He stood to leave and heard an echo - a wolf's cry on the wind._ 'Ghost?'_ No, it couldn't be. It was wind from the sea. It had to be. Around him, the thorny garden seemed to shift and eddy from his own breath and movements, and when he stilled, he scryed a shadow of a shape - far off, in the water, on black waves. The smell was stronger than his waking hours, and he was awake - he was sure of it. A growl came. It was then Jon knew he was seeing through Ghost's eyes on the mainland. It was impossible to discern between the gloom of the garden and the mist that blocked Ghost's eyes. _'What are you trying to show me, boy?'_ he asked. The wolf trotted along a snowy shore. He glimpsed a shape on the sea - a ship - a fast one, and something else on the icy ocean air...

_Sansa._


	5. Chapter 5

{DRAGONSTONE II}

The great hall of Dragonstone was sculpted in foreboding reliefs of Old Valyria, an attestment to their wickedness and belief in dragonlord supremacy. At the end of the hall was the throne - an ominous black construct moulded atop a set of stairs, with malefic dragon heads emerging from the stone around it, protecting their master. If that was where his birthfather once sat, Jon did not care to know him. Daenerys perched upon it now in a sleek black garments, stitched to appear as scales, becoming one with the serpents around her.

Jon entered the hall through two heavy crimson doors, around which dragon's teeth were raised out of the wall. How fitting it was to walk into the dragon's jaws. "Your Grace," he said, announced himself plainly, in his baleful Targaryen mail. His wounds had mostly healed, and his growing stubble threw shadows on his jaw and neck. "How long until the fleet is launched?" he asked.

"You seem eager, Warden of the North. That is strange," she answered, evading his question. She straightened her back and her neck, trying to entice him from her position. He had not spoken to her since arriving, and they'd been on the island for some time.

"What's strange is you aren't," he retorted brazenly. It almost surprised him. He hadn't openly contradicted Daenerys since she took him prisoner. _'Where did this courage come from?'_ he thought. _'From Winterfell.'_

Daenerys smiled predaciously, finding his newfound boldness alluring. It amused her for a moment, before the dragon within her stirred. She stood and descended the stairs to him. "You will wait until my say, Jon Snow..." she said, looking pervasively into his ash-grey eyes, "... and you will remember your place."

"My place is with my army, but you wanted me here," he retorted again.

He was beautiful and vehement, and she'd resisted long enough. She was hungry for him now. Running her fingers through his long dark hair with a royal hand, she lustfully pressed her lips to his. Except, when Daenerys tried to do so, her mouth landed on his coarse beard. She could not understand why. How dare he. He was _hers_. Men killed for the chance to bed her. Her burning violet gaze turned to his again, confounded, but he did not meet it.

Nor did he wait for her dismissal. Gritting his teeth, he turned his back on the Queen, and left the way he came - through the jaws of the dragon. Stunned and insulted, she stood there aghast in all her blackhearted beauty. Daenerys did not notice that Tyrion witnessed the entire display, lurking in the shadow of another passage. Simmering, she retreated to her bedchamber where she could stew with her wounded pride, but Tyrion followed, helpfully pouring each of them a glass of arbor wine.

"If you asked for my advice, I'd suggest you make peace with the North," he said. The clink of the jug to the glass was a splendid, welcome sound. Tyrion's tone with the Queen was informal, for they were drinking off-duty.

"I have. They are my people now," said Daenerys from her cushioned bench, reaching elegantly for a glass. "They owe me their lives."

"I won't argue that, but they also watched you force their hero to kneel in the dirt," he answered. Daenerys did not like that. She looked away, disinterested in the impertinent statement. "Northmen have always been stubborn, more so than goats," he added, seating himself on a black wooden stool. "You'll need to make them see."

"What would you have me do? Take one as my husband?" she asked. "Perhaps I'll start dressing in rags with a fox about my neck," she jested, pretending to gather a fur to her throat.

"Too late for all that," he said. "If Jon Snow remained a King, perhaps. If your nephew still lived and submitted to you, you might have married him to one of the Stark maidens. Aegon's child might have been your heir, binding the North to your cause."

She pinched the neck of her glass, bothered. Daenerys did not relish to discuss Aegon. He was the son of Prince Rhaegar, growing up in exile as she did. Under the eyes of many, Aegon held a superior claim to the Iron Throne for being the eldest son of the King's eldest son. She was the King's daughter, however, and she held a weapon Aegon did not - dragons. The only dragons.

"Jon Snow has been amenable," Tyrion continued, "but it is Sansa Stark the Northmen look to as their voice. She kept them fed and sheltered. She gave them justice for past wrongs, while he cavorted with a hated Southern house."

"I am not 'Southern', if you recall. You had best remember that," she retorted, stern and unwavering.

Tyrion acquiesed, tilting his mass of stringy pale hair. "Sansa has the Vale positively wrapped around her finger, and her mother was a Tully. The Rivermen have dozens of reasons to despise Lannisters, and with a Lannister at your side... They'll eagerly throw their lot in with Sansa should the North ever rebel against you. Even now, after your victory, they whisper that you burned a father and son alive. While not a lie, it is defamatory," he explained. "They're starting to think they don't need you."

"A spot of dragonfire will put the fear in them. I'm only wondering who I should visit first - Sunspear, Pyke, Winterfell, or King's Landing?" she asked.

"Oh, King's Landing, for certain. Burning anywhere else would only be a favour to Cersei, while she still lives," he answered, laughing merrily.

"You should have been born a Targaryen, my Lord," she said, smiling. She raised her glass to his, and his glass clinked in agreement.


	6. Chapter 6

{DRAGONSTONE III}

"If there is anything of the dragonlords within me, let it be this," he whispered to himself. Gazing up at the smoking, daunting Dragonmount, Jon knew what he must do to leave the island. With two borrowed chickens from the larder in hand, he trudgingly hiked up the treacherous bluffs through knee-deep snow and slippery ice. He clutched at his beloved fur cloak, and though he wore a helm, his ears stung with cold. Ocean mist froze on his face and neck, turning the tips of his hair white with frost. Still, he had to press onward and upward.

He knew the beasts often perched up there. There they would cook and consume whatever food they hunted or were given by the Queen's appointed soldiers. It was only a matter of luck that Jon came upon Rhaegal first, and not Drogon, upon reaching a snowy plateau three hundred feet above the sea. The beast was half-concealed beneath snowfall, and stirred from the smell of raw meat. One large bronze eye opened in the dark - ethereally glowing like enchanted fire - and the dragon woke. _'I must be mad,'_ Jon thought. Mad enough to try, to be sure. Steam rose from the dragon's scales as it shook off the snow - revealing a brilliant jade shimmering under moonlight.

When the creature raised its huge, many-horned head to look at Jon, he quickly tossed a chicken towards the beast's black claws. It opened its jaws, baring a hundred shining black fangs - fit to snap a stag in half, and breathed fire upon the offering. Rhaegal's flame could be felt from where Jon stood, heating the air for an instant before vanishing. Its orange and yellow flame melted the snow around the dragon into water, spilling down the mountainside as a gush. Jon lifted the second chicken up so Rhaegal could see - and Rhaegal remained fixed upon the offering - something akin to a massive, firebreathing, intelligent raven, hungry for more. Jon closed half the distance before throwing the chicken past Rhaegal, turning the beast away as he lithely stepped on its wing at a feverish pace up to its back. He'd seen Daenerys mount Drogon the same way, only far more gracefully and practiced. _'Please,'_ Jon desperately thought, as if mounting an untamed horse that might charge, or a dragon that might turn and roast him alive.

Having consumed the other chicken with fire, Rhaegal turned its jade-scaled head to look at the strange man mounted astride it. Jon gripped the sharply pointed spines on its back, and gave Rhaegal a meager nudge with his boots. Rhaegal did not respond, merely staring at Jon with its curious bronze gaze - otherworldly, and certainly not like a horse. _'Just... fly,'_ he thought.

And the dragon turned, shaking the mountainside as it did, and spread its wide emerald wings before gliding off the cliff. Jon gasped, losing his stomach and his helm in what felt like a freefall - desperately clutching the dragon's boney spines and gripping the scales with his boots. His hands began to sweat through his gloves. Over the Stone Drum they glided, and Jon felt Rhaegal's insurmountable power as it soared, emitting a great heartbeat with each flap of its great jade wings. The sea, far below, was a mirror to the moon - all sapphire and white. He urged Rhaegal to turn from the sea toward the smoking Dragonmount. _'West,'_ Jon prayed, and glided high and away from the island.


	7. Chapter 7

{THE RED KEEP I}

The placid tone of harbour bells echoed across the foggy bay. The waters were treacherous, concealing thick shards of jagged ice along the shore that scraped at the ship's bow, threatening to breach it. The air bore a sickening scent of sewage, even in the cold. Sansa had no physical strength to flee or fight, for she was starved and delirious from thirst. A clammy, foul-smelling man seized her and carried her hooded body from the hold to dockside and onto a rowing jetty, while the wind howled bitter cold all around her. She could hear rocks and snow crunch beneath his boots as she was lugged over his ice-cold shoulder. Into a cave he carried her, and through the scratchy linen hood she could see faint yellow orbs of light.

Bloodcurdling cries and screams emitted from the bowels of the cave. The stench of death permeated so potently that it churned Sansa's guts. If she had any food in her stomach, she would have vomited inside her hood. Nevertheless, she began to sweat with nausea, and the pressure on her belly from the shoulder turned her face blue. _'Gods,'_ she thought. _'The smell... The harbour bells... Please, no... I can't stand it...'_ She had the urge to kick and flee, but in her depleted state, she only would've fallen on her face and worsened anything they had planned for her.

An iron door creaked with the souls of a thousand prisoners. She could smell urine and feces so foul inside, and rotting meat. Roughly, the man dropped her in a pile of stinking, mouldy straw, next to a long-dead corpse - shrunken and bare to the bone where the rats had eaten it. Entering the torchlight came a sinister blonde demoness, her jewel-green eyes glimmering below a golden crown. Grinning fiendishly, she unlaced the hood from around the Sansa's neck and pulled it off, laughing with hateful pleasure as she saw the unmistakable red hair spill out.

Sansa laid paralyzed, gripped in horror and could not speak or scream - a captured bird with lion's claws sunken into her flesh.

"Welcome home, Little Dove."


	8. Chapter 8

{DRAGONSTONE IV}

The black dragonglass sconces of the royal bedchamber flickered dimly, scarcely lighting anything more than a foot away. This had been Rhaegar's room once - Daenerys remembered it from a vision inside the House of the Undying, when she saw her brother and his newborn son, Aegon. She vaguely remembered Rhaegar's silver harp, and tried to recall its beauteous melody - a lost memory from before her time.

Some hours later when she woke, Daenerys felt relieved that Missandei had not attended her early to find her abed with Tyrion, with whom she had a salacious first encounter. The bedchamber was a mess, with broken glass and half-dried wine beside the ebony table where Tyrion had dropped it when Daenerys kissed him. There came a trio of harsh thuds at the door, and Daenerys could tell it was not her meek Naathi handmaiden. Donning nothing except an embroidered black coverlet from the bed, she answered.

It was Grey Worm, whom spoke in Valyrian. "My Queen," he announced himself. "As you slept, I found nine-and-ten deserters trying to commandeer one of your ships," he said in his Ghiscari accent, paying no attention to her crude state of dress. "With them, My Queen... I found Missandei," he added, with a shade of reluctance, his hard face softening.

Twenty. Twenty had tried to abandon her. Twenty traitors. Daenerys remembered what Missandei had asked, and Daenerys' subsequent refusal to let her leave during war. It seemed Missandei did not abide by the answer. If deserters had nothing to fear, soon, twenty would be forty, forty would be eighty, and so forth. Daenerys knew a brutal deterrent had to be demonstrated to the rest. "Missandei knew what would happen if she ever betrayed me. Very well. Take them to the dungeons."

Grey Worm frowned. "My Queen. There is also the matter of Jon Snow."

"What of him?" she asked.

"We cannot find him. He is gone."


	9. Chapter 9

{KINGSWOOD I}

Jon hoped the coast would make it effortless to find the capital, and most of all - the Northern army. Mountains of snow and fog encased the high Red Keep, moulding it into a snow castle with a cluttered village below. Jon glimpsed it from the clouds, cautiously urging Rhaegal inland and closer to the Kingsroad as he did. Many trees had shed their leaves, appearing as spindly skeletons in winter. Soldier pines stood fast, creating thick brush that could hide the army Jon was searching for.

He found them few leagues from the King's Gate, mostly sheltered by the pines. A few orange fires and a dozen tents were all that he discerned from above. As Rhaegal glided lower, Jon watched the horses scurry at the sound of dragon wings, followed by a few men scattering and shouting at the sight of the looming beast, blotting out the moonlight. He set Rhaegal down in a clearing between the pines, landing with cumbersome force as every roosting bird fled from their hiding places. They created a wild cacophony of caws and hoots, echoing through the forest. When he descended from the dragon, Jon's legs felt more saddle sore than ever as he trudged through knee-deep snowfall, toward the encampment.

The men gasped when he emerged from the shadows between the trees, and when they saw his wolfish face and long fur cloak, the Northmen ran to greet him.

"Lord Snow?" a voice asked.

"It's the bastard Crow!" another shouted.

Before he could respond, a pair of skinny arms jumped upon his neck, nearly pulling him to the ground. He knew it as his scrappy sister straight away. "How did you ride that?" Arya asked once she let him go.

"Later, sister. I promise," he answered. "I need to speak with the officers," he said, walking into the camp.

Arya trotted after him, wondering if he could hear her over the clamouring soldiers around him, all talking at once. "We've received a raven about Sansa. She hasn't been at home in a week. Something's happened," she explained.

"I know," he said gruffly, not stopping.

"You know? Then they reached you at Dragonstone. The seneschal lost the ravens we sent," she said.

He did not answer, stepping into a tent as it swarmed with a dozen half-frozen soldiers, clamouring. Arya stood outside and listened.

"Is the Dragon Queen coming? What's the plan for attack?" one asked.

"Do we even need her now? If Lord Snow has a dragon..." a husky Northern voice wondered.

Jon interjected. "She will come once she realizes I'm gone. It will take her men longer by ship, but we can expect them within a day."

Arya looked toward the forest, where the dragon had landed. Curious, she walked into the dark of the trees in hopes of getting a closer look.

"We have scouts posted along the treeline and the Kingsroad to warn us of any incursion," the Tully officer in fishscale-patterned armor said.

"What of the horselords?" Jon asked.

The men stilled, looking sheepishly at each other before a haggard Mormont retainer answered. "We had a quarrel with them. They are not coming."

"What do you mean?! Are they running loose upon the lands unchecked?" Jon asked fervently.

"No. No, my Lord. They are dead. They pillaged a farmhold on Lady Dustin's lands and stole several horses. The knights objected and, well... I'm sure you understand what happened then," they explained.

Jon knew the ferocity of the Dothraki bloodriders. "How many did we lose?" he asked.

"Three-and-thirty, My Lord," another man answered.

Jon simply nodded in acceptance of the loss of soldiers and tried not to think of the inevitable response from Daenerys. He bid his men to leave him and to rest while they could.

Jon began to examine the raven messages from Winterfell inside the seneschal's tent. The last raven in its cage peered up at him with beady black eyes, ruffling its shaggy feathers at Jon. From Winterfell, Sam wrote that the remaining Valemen garrisoned there had fully searched the castle and its grounds, and rode the plains each day for any sign of Sansa. Winterfell since received no demands or leads. Jon sighed sorrowfully, consumed at what torments could befall her in a monster's hands. He tried not to think of it, but all he saw was her lovely face, pleading for help - tearful cerulean eyes pleading for the heroes in her songs. A small gust of cold air kissed Jon on the back of his neck, making the little hairs stand. He spun around just in time to see the shining longsword thrusting at his throat.

Whoever the man was, he was strong and lean. He wore no sigil. The blade cut through Jon's glove and swiftly into his palm as he shoved it aside, barely feeling the blade's bite. Jon scarcely had enough time to draw Longclaw, for the bastard sword was heavy and long. Their steel met, clashing, and shredding the seneschal's tent to streaming ribbons. The last raven croaked in alarm and panic, thrashing in its cage. _"Snow! Snow! Snow!"_ it croaked.

The table the raven's cage sat upon was knocked sideways. Out of the ruined tent Jon forced the intruder. He was brave and well-trained, but did not possess the ferocity that Jon learned from fighting for his life North of the Wall. He parried well, but was obviously accustomed to fighting with a shield. He was taller than Jon with a longer reach and long legs. Jon riposted with the heavy bastard sword. With a swift kick, he unbalanced him, and parried the steel just enough to thrust Longclaw deep into the man's lamellar.

Soldiers had begun to gather. "Are we under attack?" they asked. "Is it a traitor?"

The man collapsed on his back and bled profusely through his armor as Jon withdrew the steel, groaning in anguish. "Who sent you?" he asked. "Who are you?"

"Kill me and finish it!" the bleeding man shouted in pain. Jon refused, snatching the man's spare dagger from his waist and tossing it away.

"Help me get him into another tent. I need answers before he dies." Jon chose a Mormont man and a Manderly. They lifted the bleeding vagabond and carried him swiftly to another tent. The raven still croaked in its cage, its black beak agape, leaving a mess of midnight feathers on the ground.

"Leave me with him. No one is allowed in," Jon commanded them. Turning to the dying man who lay clutching his gut, Jon pulled the helm from his head, unveiling a mass of sandy blonde hair and a comely face, grimacing. It was Ser Hardyng - Sansa's own betrothed.

"Where is _she_?" Jon asked, pressing Longclaw against Harry's throat as his own blood dripped down the hilt. Jon felt the urge to kill rising like the tide.

"I'm dead anyway, my Lord. Do it," Harry begged with his blue eyes widening. It was true, he would die soon from the deep wound through his innards, but Jon couldn't allow that.

Jon spoke softly in a whisper, burying the urge to just butcher him, for Sansa's sake. He needed information more, and he knew the knights of the Vale. Obsessed with chivalry, they were. A shamed knight among them was worse than death. "You are a knight, Ser. I will say you died fighting with honor, if you tell me what you know."

"Die fighting with honor," Harry laughed weakly in pain, blood coating his teeth. "Yes, that is a fine prize for what I've done." He choked and coughed on blood, pressing his gloved hands over his belly and groaning. "Swear it, my Lord. I will give you what you ask."

"I swear, by the Old Gods and the New." Jon only kept faith with the Old, but Harry did not need to know that.

Harry choked more, struggling to breathe as his azure eyes glazed over. Between trembling breaths, he spoke. "I needed Sansa's... dowry. My family has no... fortune. Only debts... and stone. Somebody knew. I asked... your sister to wed me... one last... time, but she refused... so, I delivered her... to a ship... bound for... the capital. I wasn't... paid enough," Harry confessed, his breaths becoming agonizing and slow.

"By whom?" Jon asked softly.

"The... Targaryen..." Harry whispered, on his last breath, fading. "Hand."

Jon was dumbfounded. "Was there anyone else?" Jon nudged him, shaking him for any more information.

"Only I..." Harry whispered, and went limp.

_'Lord Tyrion,'_ Jon thought, as Harry faded away. Jon closed Harry's dead blue eyes and gathered a spare sheet for which to cover him.

He approached the two soldiers standing guard outside, now surrounded by over two dozen more Northmen waiting for answers. "Wrap him and guard the tent. Allow no one to see the body," he whispered to the Mormont guard. "The rest of you, hear me well. We need to keep this quiet for now. Say nothing. You saw nothing. You heard nothing. I wouldn't ask this if I didn't need to. You may return to your duties," he commanded. 

"Lord Snow, we will follow you, but we need to know who you're fighting for - this Dragon Queen's throne, or to bring your sister home," the Tully grumbled. He alluded to the Targaryen sigil over Jon's heart.

He couldn't start a rebellion here, but he also couldn't undermine their shaken trust in him. He had to give them something. "For Sansa. We still don't know where she is or who has her. Keep it to yourselves. Now, go and stay silent."

A skinny hand grabbed his. She was a talented sneak. "What happened, Jon? I stepped out of camp for a moment, and..." Arya said, noticing the blood on him.

"It was about Sansa," he whispered, his voice shaking. He was vulnerable. "She's in the city," he confided in her, as Arya's grey eyes turned to ice.


	10. Chapter 10

{THE RED KEEP II}

The stones and walls of Red Keep were freezing, with the upper castle even colder than the black cells below. Dozens of windows were shattered, and every room except the upper chambers of Maegor's Holdfast were in disrepair. No servants attended the Queen, save for the silent, rotting, lurking creatures - more dead than alive. In the shadow of night, Cersei had her prized quarry brought up from the black cells by such a one.

Cersei's beauty had faded, but she was still as terribly beautiful as women came. Her golden hair had grown since its shearing during her Walk of Atonement, and now fell midway to her shoulders in blonde ripples. A few grey hairs riddled her temples, and though she developed bags beneath her eyes from sleeplessness, her eyes still glittered emerald as a cat's. She wore leather slippers painted gold beneath her bell-sleeve gown, with the lion of Lannister embroidered at its pauldrons, and a golden fur cloak.

"Bathe," she commanded Sansa, verging on the kindness she was so gifted at mimicking. "You'll foul the whole keep." A fire burned in the great hearth of Cersei's chamber, and in front of it sat a heavy wooden tub. A stuffed lion's head roared silently from its place above the fire. Dead golden roses were scattered around the room. Sansa merely stood still as a doe, her hair tangled and knotted, and her blue dress ruined. "What are you, deaf, girl? Bathe!" Cersei insisted, slapping Sansa hard across her cheek. It stung. Cersei's nails were jagged and sharp as claws.

Sansa disrobed while Cersei poured arbor red for herself in the parlour. The water was utterly chilled, but Sansa persisted in placing her entire body in the tub. Cersei wasn't going to kill her that very moment, so she may as well attempt to get the smell off.

"Your father's death was not my doing. Perhaps you should know that before the end, Little Dove," she said.

Sansa wondered if she should even speak. Cersei was verging on madness in this tower. The keep was empty, save for her ghastly guards that seemed to come and go in deathly silence. Where had all the servants gone?

Sansa recalled Cersei during the Battle of the Blackwater, bellowing of how she would rather face a thousand swords rather than be shut inside - yet, here Cersei was, shut inside by her own doing. Sansa remembered Ilyn Payne's eerie stare, silent as a tomb, ready to behead both of them, and how Cersei consumed an entire jug of wine to dull her senses of impending death. How Sansa wished Stannis had won that battle and placed Cersei's golden head on a spike. She imagined that sight as she imperviously scrubbed her entire face and body with a waxy bar of honeyed soap.

"I know you didn't kill my son, Little Dove," Cersei said. "Though, I suppose you wanted to, or would have, someday... as I killed my husband."

"I was sorry to hear of your daughter. I mourned her," Sansa finally spoke, cupping cold water in her hands and bringing it to her face. "Myrcella was an innocent."

"Still perfect, aren't you?" Cersei said sharply with a smirk, taking a sip of her wine.

"... And your son, Tommen. He was just a little boy, who loved to play with kittens," she said.

"Just stop it, you little fool," Cersei responded, vehemently rejecting the thought of her dead children. There was something underneath her wicked veneer. She missed them, truly, but all thoughts of them were drowned. She was always destined to lose them, and she loved them all the same. She turned her gaze to Sansa in the cold tub, her deep poppy hair slick and wet, starting to shiver. "So perfect... and pious... and pure," she mused, mulling over her wine with that purring voice of a lionness. "They'll come for you, for certain. Thousands will raise their swords for their lovely Lady Stark. It shouldn't be too long, Little Dove. They're camped in the Kingswood."

_Jon._

Had he come to rescue her from this rat's nest as Robb meant to? Would this end the same way? She shivered and didn't breathe, but felt her heart throb persistently in her chest, refusing to give up. Perhaps if she could trick Cersei... or hurt Cersei... maybe there was hope... but she wasn't Arya, or Robb, or Jon... 

Sansa stepped from the tub, chilled to her bones and feeling the dissipating warmth of the hearth beside her. Cersei placed for her a simple frock gown on a heavy chest nearby. It was cream silk with bell sleeves and intricate ivies along the trim. Plain by a Lannister's standards, to be sure. Cersei was never this generous before. When Sansa had clothed herself again, Cersei walked over to her with a pair of shears in hand and...

_'No, not my hair,'_ Sansa thought, as the Queen snipped off a lock of her garnet red.


	11. Chapter 11

{KINGSWOOD II}

Rhaegal stirred and growled, the spines on its back rippling. Far in the distant clouds, Jon could see the unmistakable shadow of Drogon, searching for them. From a league away, Jon could hear Drogon shriek, echoing across the sea and sky. Jon placed his linen-wrapped hand upon Rhaegal's neck, fostering their new bond in what time remained. Along the coast Drogon flew, and across the bay, circling at the sight of camp fires. Jon waited at the treeline, ready to meet Daenerys first. She spotted Jon and the dragon effortlessly, and commanded Drogon downward to a halt. Jon maintained his hand on Rhaegal, though it shrieked territorially at its sibling.

Drogon's weight shook the trees and rocks. It seemed to hiss at Jon and Rhaegal both. Daenerys looked displeased, descending quickly from Drogon's shoulders and marching across the snow.

"Warden of the North!" she shouted. She wore a scaled leather chestpiece that jutted out above her arms like dragon's wings, and silver chainmail legs with tall leather boots. At her hip, she carried a great leather whip. Jon did not respond, merely standing stoically. Rhaegal moved to fly, eddying currents around the pines, and Drogon followed. Daenerys was now in front of him. She wore her hair in braids with bells as the horselords do. "You stole one of my dragons!" she bellowed, accusatory.

"Borrowed, Your Grace."

"How is this possible?" she asked. "Only the blood of Old Valyria can bring a dragon to heel. Rhaegal killed a Prince of Dorne for getting too close. Tell me how it is you succeeded!" she shouted, looking into his shadowy eyes. 

"I don't know," he said, giving a non-answer. Was she privy to Tyrion's scheme? He could not know yet.

She sighed, crossing her arms. "You're going to answer for this, later. My Unsullied have launched the fleet. We can expect them within hours," she said. "What of my bloodriders?"

"There was a complication, Your Grace," he said. "An argument on pillaging. I'll make sure you are compensated for your losses once you have the throne. They are not coming," he clarified. Whether he would make due on that non-promise was debatable. She simply looked away from him in disappointment, from the Kingswood toward the Red Keep above and away. The seat of her ancestors was encased in snow. It had been nothing but a barren hill when Aegon the Conqueror first set foot there centuries ago. 

She thought of the bloodriders. They were never Khals, but they grew up learning from them. She remembered the lamb men, butchered, and the women - more ravaged than she could count - and the children, sold to pleasurehouses. She always knew what the Dothraki were, and what she was bringing across the Narrow Sea._ 'Perhaps I cannot make my people good, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad,'_ she remembered telling herself once. The horrid truth was, she didn't care what they did, anymore. _'A means to an end,'_ she told herself.

_Rhaegal._ Rhaegal was one of the last two dragons alive, and Jon took one, without permission, and without payment. She never anticipated this. The scales were dreadfully even. Drogon was larger and stronger, to be sure, but Jon had bonds on this side of the Narrow Sea that Daenerys never would. He had his beloved, frozen wasteland of a home. He had enough love from the wretched folk who once crowned him King. He could sire children and leave part of himself in this world when he was gone. It sickened her. 

"Did you know that once a dragon bonds with a rider, it can never be ridden by another?" she asked flatly. "Not until their rider's death."

"No, Your Grace," he answered.

"You owe me a great debt, Jon Snow. Your life, your lands, and now, my dragon," she said, ominously low.

They made their way back to the Northern encampment, but they were not greeted by a cheering crowd. "Lord Snow," a Northman greeted Jon. "Your Grace," he added with a shabby bow to Daenerys. "The scouts have found something on the Kingsroad. A message, perhaps. You should see at once."

Near the horses, a skinny scout stood with a small gold-painted box, surrounded by three dozen more men waiting to see. Jon's heart pounded with anxiety as to what the box held. He took it from the scout's hands and opened it, revealing a thick lock of auburn hair. "Lady Stark," they all whispered, recognizing the shade. Daenerys looked into the box and then at Jon, miffed, before retreating to a tent where she could wait for her Unsullied. Jon gave the box back to the scout. The soldiers began to clamour, and soon, word would reach the entire camp about the hostage status of their liege Lady. He hoped they would not provoke Daenerys. All pretense of her being a benevolent conqueror had vanished.

"Snow, if I may have a word?" asked a tall blonde soldier with a woman's voice. It was Brienne of Tarth.

"I did not know you were accompanying the army. I thought you stayed in Winterfell," said Jon, walking to her.

"I didn't. I asked Lady Sansa for her leave before I left. It is my fault this has happened. Had I been there..." she pondered defeatedly. Brienne was half a head taller than Jon, easily the tallest woman he'd ever met, but she had a good heart. He felt certain of that by now.

"I'm sure you would have done your best," Jon assured her.

Brienne swallowed, taking her crestfallen gaze off the ground. "There's someone here who's asked to speak to you. Privately. He means you and your sister no harm, I promise you," she said.

Jon was doubtful, but he knew Brienne by now. If she were to vouch for someone, they had to be worth her loyalty. She led Jon to the outskirts of the encampment, near the pines. A tall, slim man stood beneath, hooded, with no discernible sigil. He threw back his hood, revealing a long honey-gold beard and curling grey-and-blonde hair to his shoulders. Jon knew him, even well past his prime. It was Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, with his telltale golden hand cleverly concealed inside a glove.

"Lord Snow, how far you've come," Jaime greeted him, too friendly and arrogant for Jon's liking. Jon did not reciprocate. "Ned had no sense of humor, either. Pity."

"Brienne, why is he here? Why did he ask for me?" Jon asked, knowing it would take all night for the Kingslayer to speak plainly.

She sighed. "Ser Jaime came to make amends with House Stark, though he's too stubborn to admit it," she explained. Jaime winced at the statement. "He knows of a way into the Red Keep, unseen. He can help."

Jon felt doubtful of the Kingslayer. Trust was at a critical low. He counted two Lannisters among his enemies at that moment. Was Jaime truly the odd one out? He frowned, relenting. "If you know a way in, show me. Take me with you," said Jon.

"No, the more people who come, the more likely we'll be spotted," Jaime refused. "And you've got that dragon to ride. Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor. I must do this alone... or die in my attempt."

Jon looked to Brienne, who forced a meager smile to reassure him. She cared for him, obviously, but she wouldn't be the first woman blinded by love. Jon looked to Jaime, even more lionlike with the beard and cat's green eyes. He wanted to believe the knight's words. He remembered Jaime fighting gallantly for Winterfell with one clumsy hand, but he also remembered that Jaime once attacked Ned Stark in King's Landing. Only Jaime knew the extent of his crimes against House Stark, but Jon sensed his will to atone was true enough to risk. He looked to Brienne again. 

"Very well," Jon acquiesed, holding out his left hand to meet Jaime's, as Jaime once held out his hand for Jon's, all those years ago. He hoped he would not regret this.

Within Jon's eyes, Jaime glimpsed a ghost - a spectre of someone that haunted him. _'Rhaegar,'_ Jaime thought. _'He couldn't be. He's old Ned's bastard by a tavern wench... but that armor, that voice, the dragon...'_ Jaime began to roar inside with laughter. How had no one seen? Why didn't anyone suspect? Jon wasn't Ned's bastard. He was Lyanna's bastard by the Prince. Jaime's catlike smile flashed at Jon, as he walked into the trees, saying nothing.

Brienne was still at Jaime's side in the pines, ever loyal. "Let me come with you. You'll need me in there."

"You'll smack your head on the ceilings. I can't have that," he jested, and then softened, sheepishly. "I know I don't make it easy for you... I'm the last person in the world a Stark would ever trust. He would never have heard me if not for you," he said. Brienne placed her hands at his collar and her heart went watery, pressing her forehead to his. "I'll be back soon. You'll see."

"You had better," she whispered, before they kissed. Just a soft, fleeting kiss, one of thousands to come. He pulled his hood over his head again and gripped the hilt of Widow's Wail at his waist, giving Brienne one last smile with a tear in his eye. And then he was gone, toward Blackwater Bay.

As Brienne walked back into camp, she overheard Jon Snow asking his soldiers if they had seen his sister, Arya Stark. No one had... not in hours.


	12. Chapter 12

{THE RED KEEP III}

Arya's recollection of the tunnel on the river and how to make her way upward through the sewers was remarkable. Though the stench was as horrible as in summer, most of the water had frozen solid, and the dead bodies she stepped over were stiff as stone. She moved quickly. From below, she could hear the sounds of people above wretching, and moved faster when she did. Rats squeaked and scurried madly as she ran. She breathed a sigh of relief when she no longer walked on icy piss, and felt wooden braces against earthy walls. When the timbers turned to cool, dressed stone, Arya knew she was close to the Red Keep.

It had been a lifetime since she first walked this passage as a scabby-kneed girl. She recalled chasing cats as her dancing master advised, and bowling over Prince Tommen to avoid being caught by Lannister guards. She remembered crouching beside the ancient dragon skulls in a deep cellar and overhearing two spies allude to her father and the coming war.

When she finally came upon a stairwell up, she could feel her lust for vengeance simmering. A small brazier glowed orange at the top. Arya did not look at it, for she wanted her eyesight to remain keen in the darkness. Down another half league of halls, she came upon the dragon skulls, and knew the dragon Daenerys rode was even larger.

Feverishly, she searched for a way up. Some halls were caved in, while others were hastily built over with timber and stone. She had to press on. At her feet, she found a tunnel so compact that it was barely wide enough for a grown man to crawl through. Seeing no other way except down the stairwell she came, she took the risk and crawled. Rats nested in there, kicking their dust and filth into her nose when they scurried away. She was sure her hair was coated in spiderwebs.

Screams. She began to hear screams from ahead. The stench of death permeated her crawling space, as if the entire Red Keep had died down there. When she finally reached the end and was able to stand, the full force of the potent odour nearly knocked her out. Desperately, she used her dagger to cut away some of her wool undershirt to tie around her face before proceeding.

Chains rattled, and voices mumbled... almost inhuman. Arya kept her hand on her dagger as she crept down the hall in complete darkness, not knowing which way she was going. Eventually, she came to a row of heavy wooden doors. The mumbling within ceased and one creaked open. She could see the shape of a fat man, and a glowing red sconce beside him. His eyes were hollow sockets and he had stitches on his neck, all the way around. Arya's heart raced. She almost wanted to flee, but stayed as still as a statue as he walked past, holding her breath. Within the cell were headless bodies of men and women stacked against the walls.

Further down the hall she went. It stunk of excrement. She came upon a narrow stairway, and from below, harrowing cries emitted. She wanted to go up, and told herself as much, but the screams were so terrible. She had to know.

Down the spiral she went. She could hear the clink of chains and more faint speech. At her foot was a barrel leaking a luminescent green potion, and she knew what it was. And there was more... the further she walked down the hall, the more barrels she found. A heavy door stood partially open. She had to push it to see what was inside. It was a spacious circular room, filled with dozens of strange instruments. On a long table - a naked woman laid shackled. She had a gruesome line of stitches down her belly, and... Gods... around both of her wrists. She... turned her head to Arya, revealing cloudy, dead eyes, and opened her mouth to wail. Arya could see she had no tongue. Arya drew her dagger, ready to give the gift of mercy to the tortured soul, and brought it swiftly through her neck.

This time, the woman ceased to cry, but still she thrashed against the table - black blood seeping from the wound across her neck and onto the floor at Arya's boots. Arya ran - bowling into another one of them - an animated corpse. She fled, and it gave chase at a slower speed, growling and groaning, tongueless and curdled grey. Every door she passed held more of them. Arya remembered the wildfire. What if they knocked over a barrel? What was stopping Cersei from blowing up the castle now? After climbing another set of stairs, she passed a chamber with a dragon mosaic on the floor and a huge brazier. Iron bars stopped her passage from all but one pathway, which she took, closing it behind her. She began to pass more lit torches, meaning her element of surprise would soon be at an end if she didn't stay in the shadows.

More barrels glowing green. She had to find her sister and get out of here. Cersei could burn for all Arya cared. She passed an open room, and to her horror, a man stood inside - in his hands, a glowing green glass flask. She still had her knife.

"Easy. Easy now, child," he said, his voice soft and almost fatherly. He wore ratty brown robes, but no chain. "How clever of you to get in here." Arya moved with her blade, but he lifted the flask high. She saw that there were jugs lining the room, lit by a candle. "Why don't you, quite simply... lower that little shiv you're carrying, and we'll both be safe..."

Frantically, Arya threw her dagger at lightning speed and dashed like a cat for the flask, catching it just as the blade struck the necromancer in his heart.

Jaime had slowly but determinedly made his way up the treacherous path on the cliffs below the Red Keep. The immense snowfall made it far more daunting than usual. Jaime desperately gripped the handrail set into the rock. Occasionally, wind would blow snow off the cliffs and onto him, but he had to keep moving. As he neared the top, he looked back and glimpsed dozens of ships sailing into the bay - the Dragon Queen's troops from Dragonstone.

The Godswood of the Keep was quiet as death. Rows upon rows of flowers stood frozen, while exotic southern trees wore a white coat of snow. It was peaceful - even beautiful - but Jaime could not stay. He unsheathed Widow's Wail now, carrying it for when he might need it. _'Will they write about me?'_ he asked himself, fearless and gallant. Jaime's footsteps left a lonely trail through the tranquil haven, and the still flora bade him farewell.


	13. Chapter 13

{KINGSWOOD III}

The ships bearing the black flag of House Targaryen anchored in Blackwater Bay, with the Unsullied rowing themselves to shore. Fewer remained than last time, Jon counted. They were short several dozen, perhaps more. Ser Barristan Selmy, armored in black plate, took his honored place near the Queen, as did Tyrion Lannister. Jon shared a tense look with Tyrion, trying to remain calm. He remained aloof, fearing for the lives of his Stark family within the walls of the capital, and what might befall them... and what exactly he might have to do to get them back. 

Half a league from the King's Gate, Daenerys watched the grizzled Northern army form ranks. "For Lady Stark!" they bellowed - fires burning in their bellies for their liege Lady. It was plain to see that none of them had come to reclaim the throne for a Targaryen. She looked across the field to Jon, who seemed destroyed at the prospect of his sister's imminent demise, but sacrifices had to be made. Sansa was the head of Daenerys' enemies - an obstacle to peace. Cut her away and the rest of the North would fall into place. One life was but a drop in the ocean. 

The Dothraki followed Daenerys because she was ruthless and cunning enough to kill their Khals - all of their Khals. The Dothraki bore her no real love or devotion. Daenerys remembered how the Unsullied once fought for her because she was better than the cruel Wise Masters. Now, even some of them were turning away, and she found herself meting out harsh punishments and threats to keep them in line. Aside from the Unsullied that remained, she had Ser Barristan and Tyrion, and the hollow promises of a few sea lords. Love died with Ser Jorah, to her sorrow. How she wished she could've saved him. 

Scorpions were one of few weaknesses for dragons, and only so for their mouths and eyes. The massive constructs were akin to crossbows, sighted atop the hills of Rhaenys, Visenya, and the city walls. Defending the city were the gold cloaks and the depleted, near-beggared royal army. Most of them would die when the Unsullied and Northmen stormed the gates. The vanguard could expect the resistance to fight like cornered rats instead of peaceful surrender. The city was hungry, and smallfolk who tried to flee to Rosby and Duskendale were butchered as traitors under Cersei's tyrannical orders.

Opaque snowy clouds began to shade the city from the moon, blackening the night, save for the amber glow of torches, reminiscent of a sea of fireflies in summertime. The Unsullied marched in rigid unison with their spears and shields, facing the King's Gate.

"They want him, Ser Barristan, even in the armor of my house," Daenerys said, alluding to Jon Snow as he spoke to his officers. She simmered beneath her icy surface. "They would crown him their King again, if they had a choice."

"Snow, Your Grace? He serves you now," Barristan said.

"Did Robert Baratheon not serve my father?" Daenerys retorted coldly. She observed the Northern army march forward, clad in winter armor and painted shields bearing the sigils of a dozen Northern vassals and Rivermen. "They are here to fight for Jon and his sister. They love her. They love him, too, and... he has one of my dragons," she said, her tone ominous.

"What do you intend, Your Grace?" he asked, cautiously.

"What do you think they intend for me once the battle is finished?" she asked flatly, not expecting a response. The knight went pale. "Ser Barristan, to your knowledge, has there ever been a dragonrider born outside of House Targaryen or Velaryon since Aegon's Conquest?"

"There were... dragonseeds during the Dance of Dragons, Your Grace. Bastards with the blood."

"Bastards..." Daenerys mused. Jon had stolen Rhaegal from her. Rhaegal... Rhaegal... Rhaegal. Named for Prince Rhaegar, the brother she never knew. "_Rhaegar_," she said.

"What of him, Your Grace?" Barristan asked, turning to the Queen again.

"What was the name of the Northern girl Rhaegar stole?"

"Lady Lyanna, Your Grace. The sister of Ned Stark," Barristan answered.

"Ned Stark... the Usurper's dog..." she whispered. "Clever. How very clever," she mused.

"Your Grace, I will always stand behind you, but I urge you not to act rashly," he said, following her as she walked towards a barren clearing, signalling for Drogon to land. "You've already won the North."

From the darkness, Drogon came, quaking the ground and shining shades of her house - black and red. Daenerys mounted it from the wing, with the bells in her hair jingling softly.

"Your Grace!" another voice called. "Avoid the Keep in the assault, I beg you," Jon said as Drogon hissed at him behind black teeth. _'If something happens to her, to EITHER of the Starks, I WILL KILL YOU,'_ he growled, internally. Daenerys did not respond, merely looking at Jon with dull apathy - the way she once looked at Viserys when he received his Golden Crown.

As she took to the wintry air, her thoughts raced._ 'He could never be a real Targaryen,'_ she thought to herself. _'He could never be a true dragon...'_


	14. Chapter 14

{THE RED KEEP IV}

High in her tower at Maegor's Holdfast, Cersei stood on the icy balcony, letting the room become chilled as outside. The fire in the hearth was dying in embers, and a single candlelight flickered weakly. The wind from the sea whistled around the keep, and snow began to blow into the chamber. "Your bastard brother is down there, Little Dove. He seemed dreadfully insipid when I met him," she said, with the breeze dancing through her golden locks and her fur.

"He was clever enough not to trust anything you agreed to," Sansa said from the parlour. She quickly ate part of a biscuit Cersei had been eating, quite sure it wasn't laced with poison, but it was stale and hard. She fought the shiver in her bones as best she could in her meager summer dress. From the shutters, she could see the lit torches of the soldiers far away and below, assembled and marching. No moonlight shone on the Blackwater, nor did any stars glitter in the sky.

Ivies hung over the headboard of Cersei's bed. Carved wooden reliefs of lions frolicked in a forest scene underneath. Her coverlet was decorated with embroidered leaves of gold on scarlet fabric, with the lion of Lannister interwoven. There was no longer a hint of Baratheon in this chamber.

"I should have known you were the one, they day we met," Cersei said, sauntering back in with her wine glass empty. "The one the witch spoke of. I should have known you were my doom. I thought it was Margaery, and then this Daenerys, but it was you... all along."

"I was a child. I never did any harm to you," Sansa retorted. Cersei swung her hand to slap her again, but to her astonishment, Sansa caught her hand and pushed it back. A younger, more beautiful Queen, indeed.

Cersei exhaled, acquiesing. "We'll both be dead soon, anyhow," she said. Snowflakes melted on her shoes halfway to the hearth.

"You can still surrender, Cersei... or fling yourself from the windows."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you - for me to give up without a battle..."

"You're not offering a battle. Daenerys will burn us alive!"

"As long as she doesn't sit on my throne..." Cersei trailed off, hearing something from the stairwell. She had not sent for her deathly servants. From underneath the long table, she retrieved an ornate wooden crossbow, already nocked and loaded. To her horror, Sansa recognized it as Joffrey's. Cersei walked in front of her, in line with the door, which creaked. Cersei was vulnerable, and there stood a wine jug on the table, and...

Sansa struck her on the head as quickly as she could, but something pummelled her harder than a gauntleted fist, blinding her with agony on her side and... She fell to the floor. Snowflakes from the balcony landed on her flushed cheeks and in her hair, a taste of home. The last thing she saw was a man - a hooded man with a beard - standing over her... Voices muddled together. _'Jon, help me,'_ she called in her dreams. _'Please... The cold...'_

Cersei collapsed on her knees, dumbfounded. Shaking, she looked down to her belly, and she saw that... a sword had gone through. "Jaime," she wept. "Jaime... why?"

Jaime's hand trembled as he pulled the blade from his twin sister's back. Groaning, Cersei turned face up to see her treacherous twin, her emerald eyes conflagrant in disbelief. Jaime said nothing, ignoring her silent pleas, and knelt over Sansa, cradling the scarlet-haired maiden with his good arm. Crimson blood pooled across the frigid stone floor, mixing together.


	15. Chapter 15

{THE DANCE OF DRAGONS}

High in the clouds, Daenerys concealed her impending onslaught. She cut upwards through them until she saw the moon - a tranquil realm above a white sea with a white pearl on fire. In a daring freefall, she descended down to Visenya's hill and bathed it in black flames, incinerating the scorpions and soldiers both. All except one bolt missed their target, which pinged off Drogon's impenetrable hide. Smoke began to rise over the city, choking the air and painting it wicked shades of orange and yellow in the starless night. She flew north-east to the hill of Rhaenys next.

Far below, Jon waited timorously alongside the Northern contingent to reinforce the Unsullied battalion. Waves of hopeless arrows fired upon them from the battlements atop the city walls, becoming lodged in shields or fiercely deflecting off. A massive winged shadow in smoke descended from above, screeching, and blasted the King's Gate with a black blaze, reducing it to cinders as Drogon roared overhead. Its enormous wings twisted the air in forceful currents that whipped Jon's hair in every direction. The gold cloaks ahead screamed in terror and anguish - crying out to the Seven and even to Cersei for aid and mercy. Most scattered. Some fought. Some ran into the homes of smallfolk. The Unsullied marched forward with their shields and pikes, spearing anything with legs that crossed their paths through the smoke, shouting in a tongue Jon could not understand. 

The winds began to pick up pace as they advanced. On the snowfall, Jon heard a faint, desperate plea - a howl - crying from a tower high in the sky. He could see it through the smoke, ominous, and heard her lilting voice weep. "Sansa," he breathed, with snow melting off his lips. He had to get there, no matter how. _Now,_ with all haste. He slipped behind, running back toward the open field as his men charged forward.

"Where are you going?!" a female voice yelled in his ear, clutching his arm. It was Brienne with her Valyrian steel drawn and unbloodied.

"I have to get to Sansa. Let me go!" he shouted, wriggling from her iron grasp.

He raised his gloved hand above his head, demanding the jade dragon's presence imminently. With a swift thunderclap of leathery wings, Rhaegal dashed from over the pines, looming over him and barely landing long enough for Jon to climb aboard. _'Fly hard!'_ Jon commanded frantically, taking Rhaegal to wing. They sailed on the wind above the walls, banking east. Jon pressed the dragon toward the Red Keep through the thickening smoke, urging it higher and faster through the infernal flurry. Snowflakes vanished upon his cheeks with icy sweetness. '_Sansa, I'm coming.' _

_Clash_. Giant claws and catastrophic ebony wings walloped Rhaegal from the sky, and the jade dragon screamed, splitting all ears within range. Realizing what was happening, Jon beseeched Rhaegal to fly furiously fast, barely escaping Drogon's black fire, shot with bleeding red. The flames consumed part of Jon's cape, his precious cape, and he cursed the dragon for it. Around the Dragonpit Daenerys pursued him, turning her whip on Drogon along the way, and back to Visenya's hill. Part of the city was aflame now, scorching out of control, with smallfolk and soldiers scattering like mice below.

Hearing the wolf's plea through the blaze again, Jon knew he had to fight, turning Rhaegal against Drogon in desperation. A mad hope. Drogon was far larger and stronger, but perhaps not as agile. He raced above Daenerys, high above the city engulfed in an amber haze. The dragons soon locked talons in a freefall from the sky. Daenerys landed her whip on Jon's arm, trying to unseat him, but he pulled so hard she was nearly unseated, herself, losing the whip to the streets below. Rhaegal tore at Drogon's chest and neck and breathed yellow-and-green flame in a mad frenzy, while also being raked by Drogon's claws in turn, deep to the bone. 

Rhaegal was weakening. Again, Daenerys gave chase, this time around the Red Keep. There she realized, to her horror, that her skin was in anguish from the flames. She had burnt. Her skin had defied her name and burnt! She had to end this battle, quickly. She was the true dragon.

Locking talons again, Drogon latched deep into Rhaegal's neck with its menacing jaws. Jon felt Rhaegal go limp as Daenerys jeered him, her violet eyes ablaze and silver bells ringing in her hair with victory. Rhaegal was thrown into the cliff, smashing against the Traitor's Walk, with Jon falling further. He landed hard, tumbling down the steps of the Red Keep, nearly being crushed by Rhaegal as the dragon hurtled past him. He felt sure the wrist of his sword arm was broken, for it panged with hurt. Perhaps an ankle as well. Rhaegal's body came to a crash into the courtyard below, steaming with heat.

With Daenerys still in the sky flying around the keep, Jon groaned, pushing himself to race up the steps, gasping loudly in pain and for breath. He heard the scalding dragonflame bathe the walls of the castle as Drogon emitted splitting shrieks. Thick smoke choked the wintry air. Jon pulled Longclaw from the scabbard at his waist with his wrong hand as he reached the top. "Sansa!" he howled. "Arya!" The skin on the back of his neck, hands, and legs stung in anguish, and his steps were unsteady. Around him laid dozens of long-dead corpses left to freeze. Beyond the doors, he saw stained glass windows with blue roses illuminated by the flames outside. At the end of the great hall he glimpsed the vile throne, darkly barbed and sinister. Again, he called for Sansa and Arya. He advanced down the pillared hall bleeding and nearly fainting from pain.

With a thunderous crash, all of the blue rose windows shattered into nothing, taking the ceiling and walls with them to the floor as the blizzard entered. Jon was forced to the ground in front of the throne as Aegon's hill itself quaked. Drogon's claws nearly pierced Jon, with Daenerys atop the dragon above, nearly crushing him. Looking up at her, he forced himself to his shaking feet - her fair face terrifying as the tempest blew in around her. Her violet eyes shone alight with pure wickedness akin to the Others. He never wished to encounter those eyes again. Drogon turned its massive head to Jon, and...

"Dracarys," she commanded in a conquering whisper.

Drogon's jaws flared with black embers, inhaling. With all the grace and quickness of a white wolf - his wrong arm gleaming with a hero's courage - Jon drove Longclaw deep into the flaring red of Drogon's right eye, screaming ferociously as he did. The dragon stalled... stunned... and tried to lift its many-horned head before collapsing, vanquished. Jon had to dodge the dragon's neck as it crashed, vapors of steam rising in the cold, and fell to his knees. He was half in disbelief, himself.

Speechless and confounded, Daenerys slid off the other side of Drogon's wing. Her skin stung with leather melted into her hands and smouldering steel seared against her thighs. She limped toward the throne. As Jon proceeded to rip Longclaw from Drogon's dead eye, Daenerys took in the sight of the seat of her ancestors - the coveted Iron Throne. Hundreds of swords were piled high and melted - jagged, brutal, and hideous as the Targaryen dynasty itself. Snow fell into the hall on the wind, almost soothing. It was so silent.

With a charred hand, Daenerys touched one of the ruined blades. An grotesque figure... something she thought she always hungered for, or convinced herself she did. It wasn't half as tall or grand as she dreamed. Nothing was. 

Smoke caressed her silver hair and silver bells, ringing. She turned back to look at Jon Snow, more treacherous and formidable than she ever knew, as Balerion reborn lay lifeless behind him. Jon's sword trickled with ebony blood. 

The dragons were gone, and this was _a time for wolves._

She gazed wistfully out to the Blackwater from the demolished hall, looking east over the sea, and glimpsed the Night Lands... and a house with a red door... and Jorah waiting for her faithfully, with his hand outstretched, beckoning. Perhaps her son was waiting, as well. Drogon... Rhaegal... Viserion... Drogo... Jorah... Rhaego... even Viserys... All gone to bones and ash. Daenerys stepped upon the icy foundation and ruined blocks, looking over the sea, and gave herself to the raging waves below to join them forever. She was gone.

The tower. He still had to get to the tower. Jon raced back unsteadily through the main doors and passed a drawbridge and a dry moat. Hundreds of flaming heads lined the spikes atop the walls. Dozens of corpses still smouldering with embers were impaled on spikes below, and far above him, a red tower. "Sansa! Arya!" he called out again. The massive stronghold within the Red Keep was hopelessly dark, and the stairs seemed to go up forever in a spiral, and his legs begged for mercy. "Jon?" he heard as he finally neared the top.

Inside, it was terribly cold and dim, lit only by a single candle. The balcony door was open, letting the awful chill blow through the chamber. He discerned a blonde woman on the stone floor - Cersei - dead in a pool of frozen blood. Her eyes stared up at him as vivid green marbles.

On the bed were two - no, three people. "Arya?" Jon growled desperately, dashing over and ignoring the pain in his legs and arm. She was crying, and holding the hand of... no, no...

_Sansa._

Longclaw crashed to the floor as Jon's heart went black and broken. The sight of her, bloodied and pale - it obliterated him. Her cream silk gown was soaked in blood across her arm and breast, and in her ribs - a fletched bolt. Her impossibly long hair fanned out over the coverlet like a red heart tree, and her skin was deathly ivory, shimmering with frost. He was too late. 

To Sansa's right laid Jaime, slumped lifelessly beside her with his mound of golden curls and golden hand. "He said it may not work... He said it was a gift from my mother," Arya rambled, sobbing. "A last wish. A promise he made." Jon did not understand. "He said to tell Brienne that he's sorry."

He sat beside Arya, tears beginning to stream from his own grey eyes. Curse the Lannister woman and curse the Hand. He should never have left Winterfell. "Leave me with her, please..." he pleaded.

"Why?" Arya asked, bleary-eyed, not letting go of Sansa's hand.

"Please, Arya..."

The room was utterly cold, and the smell of smoke permeated. As Arya crept out in tears, the last candle flickered out, fleeting as life itself. It left them in darkness. Leaning over Sansa, caressing her scarlet locks and pressing his forehead to hers, there were a thousand things he wanted to say. A thousand dreams of her brushing out her hair, kissed by roses and weirwoods and fire, and singing sweetly inside Winterfell's walls. He was a craven to never have told her. She was the key to the North, and the North was part of him, extricable. 

What is honor compared to a woman's love? Nothing. Wind and words. A man's great glory, and his tragedy. Wordless, he pressed his lips to hers, soft as spring.


	16. Chapter 16

{WE'LL FIND OUR LOVE ANEW}

With Catelyn's kiss of life fulfilled by Jaime, Sansa awoke in the frozen tower. Her lustrous butterfly lashes fluttered, and her eyes opened reminiscent of a winter rose, brightly and blue. The small pack of wolves had the rest of winter ahead of them, but they would be together.

The news of Cersei's death spread quickly, and the remaining gold cloaks surrendered. King's Landing suffered extensive damage. For a short time, Jon unceremoniously took up the mantle of Protector of The Realm, when the people clamoured for a leader. 

The line of succession was in shambles, and the lords and ladies sent ravens and envoys to wrestle for control of the Iron Throne, now encased in ice. Much of the keep was destroyed and held undead horrors, not to mention the wildfire underneath, and Aegon's Hill was deemed too unsafe to live upon. Within a week, Willas Tyrell of Highgarden sent aid to relocate and feed the survivors, as did Winterfell and Riverrun. At a later landsmeet, Jon Snow and Sansa endorsed Willas as King, for he was every bit the studious young Lord with a wise temperament. Willas subsequently married Princess Arianne, bringing Dorne into the fold again and creating a strong alliance between houses Tyrell and Martell. The seat of power thus shifted from King's Landing to Highgarden.

With Ser Harrold Hardyng's confession, Tyrion was tried, convicted, and exiled to the Wall for his role in the abduction of Sansa and conspiring for the complete conquest of the North. Jon wanted him executed - to execute the former Hand himself - but Sansa allowed Tyrion to take the Black rather than face a lengthy imprisonment. Casterly Rock was inherited by one of his young cousins, and House Lannister never became as powerful as it once was.

The North did not rejoin the Kingdoms. Jon remained a Snow, and soon returned home with Sansa and Arya by way of ship. Upon their arrival in Winterfell, a grand celebration was held in which Sansa was hailed Queen in the North - the first since Aegon's Conquest. It would take time for Jon to fully rebuild the trust he'd lost when he submitted to Daenerys, but he was patient. Jon soon told Arya the truth of his birth, and later publicly revealed to the court that he was the son of Lyanna Stark, with Howland Reed's testimony as proof. 

Jon and Sansa kept their relationship a secret for many months, eventually telling only Arya and Samwell Tarly. Sansa received a dozen more marriage proposals, but gently refused them all. In mid 307 AC, following a brief engagement, Sansa and Jon were wed in the godswood. Together, she and Jon joined hands and knelt in front of the billowing heart tree, under the eyes of the Old Gods and hundreds of vassals and allies. Sansa made for Jon a new cloak to replace the one burnt, which he ceremonially placed around her shoulders - a sign of his steadfast protection. It was one of the happiest nights of their lives, and Jon carried her into the Great Keep in his arms, indeed worthy of a song. He thereafter became her Prince-Consort. A gentle prince for Sansa, at last. 

Some of the Free Folk chose to stay in Winterfell, eventually becoming miners, weavers, masons, and smiths. Their hunting and fishing strategies helped to keep bellies full during the winter. Still, the walls of a castle did not compare to the wilds of "the Real North," and those that chose to leave returned beyond of the Wall when the worst storms had passed. A peace treaty was co-signed between Sansa, Jon Snow, and Tormund Giantsbane upon their departure.

Bran Stark, long thought lost north of the Wall, eventually returned. He remained close friends with Meera Reed, whom he eventually married and had a child with. It is unknown if Arya ever married, but she elected to travel to Dorne and Essos for a time in the company of a black-haired smith named Gendry.

Brienne remained with Sansa, honouring her oath to Lady Catelyn. She mourned Ser Jaime deeply, and though Sansa gave her blessing to leave, Brienne declined. She often visited Winterfell's sept and lit a candle to the Warrior for her lost love. Late in the winter, Brienne surrendered her claim to Tarth upon her father's death. She was eventually regarded as a True Knight, and became the subject of a romantic ballad. In this ballad, Brienne is named the Sapphire, and her lover is Goldenhand.

Through his sacrifice, Jaime Lannister was truly redeemed. Though only the most vile Crown loyalists spat on his name and proclaimed him a second-time regicide, Jaime proved that he could indeed keep a promise and an oath. Widow's Wail, melted from the steel of the ancestral sword Ice, remains high in the halls of Winterfell, awaiting a warrior worthy to wield it. It has since been renamed. 

The body of Queen Daenerys was cremated in the Targaryen tradition, and her ashes were set on Visenya's Hill with her ancestors. Her dragons were harvested for scale and bone, which became highly sought after. Some even said they possessed potent magical properties. Ser Barristan Selmy, also known as Barristan the Bold, perished in the battle, dying a knight as he always wished. His honor remained spotless and intact. He is remembered fondly throughout the Kingdoms. 

The Unsullied left on Dragonstone freed those imprisoned in the dungeons, and they sailed for the Summer Isles soon after. The surviving Unsullied at King's Landing were also permitted to leave, and many of them travelled to Braavos, where they would find easy work as sellswords. Missandei saw her sandy beaches and sweet-scented palms again, sunbathing with parrots of rainbow feathers. The Peaceful People of Naath were as safe as could be, butterflies blanketing their isle, which made incursions by slavers far too risky. She remembered her Queen as she once was.

After all of the smallfolk were relocated from King's Landing, the wildfire beneath the Red Keep was safely detonated after repairs were deemed impossible. It was also the only appealing way to destroy the necromanced dead that Cersei kept beneath the Keep. Survivors from the city resettled across the former Crownlands, Westerlands, and Stormlands.

As for Jon and Sansa's fate, their rule was prosperous and long. Neither was without mercy, wit, courage, or wisdom. When faced with a critical decision, Sansa listened to Jon's counsel, and he welcomed hers - an improvement from their quarrelsome early days in Jon's first reign. Jon proved an amiable diplomat, settling disputes between squabbling Northern lords and watching diligently for signs of treachery. Sansa usually chose to stay in Winterfell, though she often corresponded by raven with the South. She aided in brokering peace between the new Lord of Casterly Rock and her uncle at Riverrun, and remained on cordial terms with King Willas. Some foresaw that this friendship would be sealed with another marriage pact, someday, perhaps between their children. Yes, _children..._

Some nights, Jon dreamed of his wolf, Ghost, and knew the wolf still lived, though Ghost was rarely seen within the castle. Most nights, Sansa would dream of her mother and father, and her childhood, hearing the shades of her past speak. _'Someday, your husband will sit there, and you will sit by his side. And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court...'_ So it happened that Sansa was already three months expecting when they were married. In late 307 AC, during the Hour of the Wolf, Sansa fulfilled her and Jon's wish by bringing forth a boy - a grey-eyed beauty named Robb, and for the first time, Jon held a son of his own in his arms and thought, _'What is duty?'_

After that hour, the moon began to shine so full and so bright that Winterfell scarcely needed candles or torches, bathing everything it touched in silver beams. In the Lord's chamber, peonies and orchids in shades defiant of nightfall blossomed under the moonlight behind glass windows. When the dawn finally came at the end of winter, cerulean and violet roses dotted the landscape as the snow thawed, filling the crisp spring air with lovely sweetness.

Decades passed. Jon and Sansa twirled and embraced in the godswood many an evening, amidst ruby and sapphire petals and the white heart tree, with snowflakes falling around them. They watched their little princes and princesses grow contentedly, alongside the odd white pups that Ghost would bring home from the Wolfswood. And when they were finally gone, songs were sung of the Wolf Queen's beauty and her wisdom, while Jon, the dragonseed who loved her, was remembered for his courage and devotion to the North. Little girls would plead with their Lord fathers,_ "I love him, as much as Queen Sansa loved the White Wolf!" _As centuries came and went, crones told tales of an ethereal lady's song sung by the stones and trees, and swore they could see the Wolf Queen and the White Wolf dance in each snowfall. And so, the Queen of Winter and her Prince passed into legend and myth, living forever, as long as the godswood grows.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes in no particular order:
> 
> First off, thanks for reading my silly fic!
> 
> IT'S COME TO MY ATTENTION SANSA WAS ***NEVER MEAN TO JON IN THE BOOKS*** Spread the word.
> 
> How Jon found out his parentage: I imagined that Howland came to Winterfell between 6x10 and 7x01 to speak to him. Howland no doubt had a high opinion of Lyanna, since she defended him @ the Tourney at Harrenhal. I believe Howland would absolutely seek Jon out. He'd probably get to know Jon a little before deciding to drop the truth bomb. 
> 
> I didn't want to tag this as Jaime/Brienne because this is obviously a Jonsa fic. The thing about the Last Kiss: At the end of AFFC, Brienne is supposedly sent by Lady Stoneheart to kill Jaime, right? Well, I worked with the idea that Jaime somehow died (probably not by Brienne), and was brought back by whatever remained of the real Cat. I'm lazy and didn't want to go into it.
> 
> I don't like Jaime as of learning more about his book counterpart. If I ever write another, he won't be a nice guy. I'm also far more sympathetic to Cersei now (summer 2020). 
> 
> Tyrion: I wanted to go a different route, rather than making him Daenerys' moral compass as the show did. I'm aware that he does some very sketchy things in the books, including putting a person in a bowl of brown and at least two rapes. What he did in this fic was "two birds, one stone". Sorry if I didn't explain it well. He didn't anticipate Jon knowing about Sansa's abduction so soon, and he definitely wanted Daenerys to kill both Cersei and Sansa. 
> 
> I originally planned for this to have an extremely tragic ending, but chickened out because I felt more comfortable with a "happily ever after". So, if you thought this was cheesy and tooth-rottingly sweet, THAT WAS THE WHOLE POINT! I've had enough angst for one year. 
> 
> Daenerys' armor was inspired by Rhaenys in the "Visenya, Aegon, Rhaenys Targaryen" artwork by Andrew Ryan. 
> 
> Missandei and GW: Heartbreaking to write. After all of that "believe in her" dialogue in S7-8, I wanted to write Missandei as having some doubts. I didn't like how her last word on the show was literally "dragonfire", and not something more personal. I could've wrote her and GW living together in the Summer Isles, but there are people who are so entrenched in a mentality that they can't fully think for themselves. This is why I believe all of the Unsullied "chose to follow" Daenerys. They didn't know another way after a life stripped of personhood. Some of the Unsullied have begun to recover their personhood in my fic, and it's becoming incompatible with the monarch they serve. Understandably, those guys don't want to fight war after war that they have no stake in. On the show, I wanted GW to defect - to NOT take out Missandei's death on others, and to find peace. While it breaks my heart not to give him a happy ending with Missandei, I think GW realized he made a huge mistake in the end by choosing his loyalty to Daenerys over Missandei. You can decide his fate. Did he become a sellsword? Did he go to the Summer Isles and help to protect the people there? Did he fight for Daenerys until his death? It's up to you. 
> 
> I'm Canadian, but I prefer to spell "honour" as "honor". If the spelling of certain words is inconsistent, that's the reason - I'm used to typing in Canadian/British English, but sometimes I prefer the Americanized spelling.


End file.
